FROM   THE   LIBRARY  OF 
REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,   D.  D 

BEQUEATHED    BY   HIM   TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


ScjB  _ 


Section 


The  Gray  M 


AND  OTHER   POEMS. 


-Ms, 


BY 


MARY    BARKER    DODGE. 


BOSTON : 

D.     LOTHROP    &     CO, 
Franklin  and  Hawlev  Sts. 


Copyright  by 
D.  LOTHROP  &  CO. 


bterettyptd  tj  beacon  treaa,  bostou. 


DEDICATION 


O  you  remember,  Mother,  when  a  child 
I  brought  to  you  odd  bits  of  motley  chintz, 
And  harmonizing  in  crude  way  their  tints, 
Sewed  them  in  sections  —  one  on  other  piled  — 
Waiting  the  leisure,  when  not  else  beguiled, 
I  might,  made  defter  by  your  ready  hints, 
Stitch  all  together? 

Ah,  those  gay-hued  prints  — 
How   precious   were   they  while    you    looked   and 
smiled ! 


And  since,  dear  Mother,  never  have  I  brought 
To  you,  in  vain,  the  pied  hues  of  my  pen ; 

If  others  frowned,  or  careless  heeded  naught, 
You  chided  wisely,  or  smiled  help  again ; 

So,  one  kind  critic  —  'tis  a  happy  thought  — 
Will  hold  my  patchwork  worthy,  now  as  then. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE. 

The  Gray  Masque i 

Chrysanthemums 

6 

Sleigh  Bells 

8 

A  Sylvan  Search 

14 

Mont  Cenis  Tunnel 

T5 

The  Poem 

18 

Willy's  Wife 

20 

A  Benediction 

25 

Deliverance 

26 

Rest 

28 

The  Rustic  Lovers 

3°' 

In  Midwinter 

32 

The  Differe> 

tce    . 

35 

Which  ?  . 

39 

God's  Acre 

40 

Best 

41 

Joy    . 

42 

Life 

43 

Aerolites 

45 

Unsolved 

46 

Now 

49 

VI  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

The  Angels  of  the  Dew 50 

Dreaming  Eyes     ........  53 

Abbaye  aux  Dames 54 

Harvest 57 

Love 5S 

Hidden  Crosses 60 

The  Curse  of  Calgarth 62 

Unrest 69 

Loss 70 

Arctic  Heroes 71 

In  Answer 75 

Laisser  la  Verdure 76 

Birthdays 79 

Yellow  Jessamine 80 

A  Vision 82 

The  Breath  of  God 85 

Arbutus  and  Yellow  Jessamine      ....  86 

The  Choice 87 

Overdue 88 

The  Cricket's  Mission 89 

Waiting 91 

The  Use 93 

Pictured  Autumn  Leaves 94 

The  Perfect  Heart 97 

Astray 9s 

The  Cloister 100 

Alone I02 


CONTEXTS. 


VI 1 


Easter-Hymn 

Mars 

The  Red  Planet 

"  I  Fear  only  those  I  Love 

A  Spring  Idyl    . 

In  Shadow  .... 

In  Hollywood  Cemetery 

A  String  of  Beads  :  The  Year's  Rosary 
First  Bead:  The  Weavers  —  January 
Second  Bead  :  Valentine's  Day  —  February 
Third  Bead:  Promise  —  March  . 
Fourth  Bead:  Babyhood  —  April 
Fifth  Bead:  Maidenhood  —  May 
Sixth  Bead:  Motherhood  —  June 
Seventh  Bead:  Heliotrope  —  July 
Eighth  Bead:  Pompions  —  August 
NINTH  Bead:  Sabbath  Rest — September 
Tenth  Bead:  Royal  Obsequies  —  October 
Eleventh  Bead:  Aftermath  —  November 
Twelfth  Bead:  Christmas  —  December 

Defense  of  Santa  Claus 

Between  the  Years  . 

To  the  Yellow  Lily 

My  Baby        .... 

Yes  or  Xo  ?  ... 

Love's  Afternoon  :  A  Song 

Love  among  the  Graves  . 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 


Retrieval 145 

In  Egypt 146 

Inconsistency 149 

A  Legend  of  Freitenberg 150 

The  Falsi?  King  and  True 155 

Mother-Love 156 

Sursum  Corda 157 

The  Mystic  Barge 160 

Spirit-Presence 162 

Free  Will 164 

"Let  Glasgow  Flourish" 165 

Interchange 167 

A  Maying 168 

Baby  Grace 171 

Thanksgiving  Hymn  — 1876 173 

A  Christmas  Carol 175 

A  Century  Old 178 

Cloud-Seers 180 

"  Wait  a  wee,  an'  dinna  weary  "  .        .        .        .  182 

Indian  Summer 184 

The  Dearest  Darling 1S6 

The  Dying  Girl's  Bequest 188 

Sundown       .        . 191 

Love's  Signet 192 

The  Sweetener 193 

Love  and  Rest 194 

Loco 197 


CONTENTS.  IX 

PAGE. 

To  a  Crushed  Violet 202 

Mignonette 204 

The  Flushed  Firmament 206 

Gold  Worship 208 

A  Nuptial  Sonnet 211 

The  Fountain  of  Lourdes 212 

A  Truism 214 

Gone 215 

The  Wisdom  of  Sorrow 218 

The  Frozen  Crew 220 

Tomorrow 224 

Cicada-Song 226 

October 22S 

Nature's  Nun 231 

Love's  Universality 233 

Snow-Clad 234 

The  Cup  of  Water 237 

In  Gethsemane 239 

The  New  Birth 240 

A  True  Life        ........  242 

Films 243 

A  Sonnet 244 

Vasa  March 245 

The  Army  of  Spring 247 

Child  Life 249 

Bret 252 

The  Language  of  Birds 254 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Remember     .                 256 

The  Laureate  Singer 258 

In  Sarony's  Studio 260 

The  Foolish  Nuns 263 

The  Beggars'  Fortune 266 

The  Mirror  of  Steel 267 

Song  of  the  Old  Year 270 

The  Divine  Will 272 

General  Gordon 273 

A  Jacqueminot 277 

Form  and  Fragrance 27S 

Summer  Silence 2S0 

Her  Garden 282 

A  "  Rose  of  the  Rosebud  Garden  of  Girls  "      .  283 

"A  Perfect  Woman  Nobly  Planned"          .        .  2S5 


THE    GRAY    MASQUE. 


CHANCED  upon  a  brilliant  scene, 
And,  musing,  thus  I  said : 


"  All  peoples  on  this  stage  convene, 
The  whole  world  here  is  spread  — 

"  Here,  surely,  is  the  time  and  place 
To  solve  a  problem  old; 
For  whoso  talks  with  hidden  face, 
The  truth  will  frank  unfold." 

Just  then  came  tripping  lightly  by, 
Her  step  with  youth  elate, 

A  Gascon  girl  of  sparkling  eye:  — 
"  Fair  maid,  I  prithee,  wait ; 

"  For  I,  a  riddle  of  the  Sphinx 

Would  ask  thee  —  what  is  Love  ?  " 
Tossing  her  head  the  saucy  minx 
Said,   "  Look  in  yonder  grove  ! " 


THE    GRAY    MASQUE. 

I  thither  glanced  where  she  designed 

In  time  to  mark  a  kiss; 
And  thus  without  ado  divined 

Her  answer  told  in  this. 

Ah,  me  !    I  sighed,  she  little  knows ; 

Love's  life  is  not  in  kisses ; 
And  one  whose  faith  is  pinned  to  shows, 

The  real  often  misses. 

In  purple  robes  and  rarest  lace, 

A  queen  now  stopped  my  way ; 
;I  thought  I  knew,"  she  said  with  grace, 
"But  that  was  yesterday." 

A  gipsy  brown,  I  next  espied, 
And  crossed  her  hand  with  gold ; 

She  sneering  said,  "  Love  's  slave  to  pride, 
A  thing  that  's  bought  and  sold." 

Later,  I  met  a  lithe  coquette  ; 

She,  radiant  as  the  noon, 
With  mocking  mouth  laughed,  "  I  forget, 

Or  else  you  come  too  soon." 


THE    GRAY    MASQUE. 

A  friar  in  his  serge  of  gray, 

Thought  love  was  fixed  in  heaven  ; 

And  following  him  a  soldier  gay 
Cried,  "Nay,  'tis  earthly  leaven/' 

Still,  all  on  Cupid's  errand  seemed 

To  be  supremely  bent ; 
One  o'er  some  sweet  delusion  dreamed ; 

In  wedding  haste  one  went. 

The  gipsy  even,  though  touched  with  spleen, 

I  knew  had  her  romance, 
And  held  the  honied  faith,  between 

Mere  gain  and  complaisance. 

But  no  solution  could  I  get, 

My  earnest  quest  to  aid ; 
Each  seemed  to  speak  with  truth,  and  yet 

Love's  secret  to  evade. 

At  length  I  marked  a  hoary  sage, 

Feeble  and  tired  and  faint : 
No  masque  I  thought  is  here  —  his  age 

Is  patent,  all  is  quaint. 


4  THE    GRAY    MASQUE. 

I  will  not  mention  love  to  him ; 

His  cinders  have  no  heat; 
The  fires,  if  ever  there,  are  dim  — 

I'll  strengthen  him  with  meat. 

At  once  I  call  for  fruit  and  wine  ; 

We  quaff  the  kindly  cup ; 
And,  ere  I  know,  that  quest  of  mine 

Is  sounded  while  we  sup. 

No  more  I  note  the  seal  of  time 

Upon  his  grizzled  chin; 
The  lip  and  cheek  are  both  sublime 

Of  quenchless  fire  within. 

Soft  lines  are  showing  round  his  eyes  — 
"You  ask  me  what  is  Love? 

The  power"  (he  tenderly  replies) 
"  That  rules  the  courts  above  — 

"The  pulse  —  that  feels  no  limit  here, 
Then  how  much  less  beyond  — 
Of  heart  which  makes  two  beings  dear 
To  each,  and  keeps  them  fond  — 


THE    GRAY    MASQUE. 

"The  strength  of  souls  that  claim  their  own. 
Though  silence  bar  the  lips, 
Blessing  them  though  they  walk  alone, 
Beneath  the  skies'  eclipse  — 

"The  flame  of  spirits  fused  in  one 
Till  life  is  but  one  breath  ; 
Though  he  be  warm  beneath  the  sun, 
And  she  be  cold  in  death  — 

"This,  this  is  Love."'     The  voice  was  sweet  ; 
I  felt  the  masque  withdraw ; 
And  looked  in  vain  old  age  to  greet ; 
'Twas  Cupid's  self  I  saw. 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS. 


Ijj'gflglRAVEST   of  brave  sweet   blossoms,  in    all 

UHI     of  the  garden  row; 

Fair,  when  most  of   the  flowers  shrink  from  the 

winds  that  blow ; 
Gay,  when  the  dismal  north  wind  wails  through 

the  tree-tops  dumb  — 
Breathing    a    breath    of    gladness    is    the    brave 

Chrysanthemum. 

One    is    of    tawny    color;    another    of    cardinal 

glow, 
As  the  cheek  of  a  sun-warmed  maiden,  and  the 

maple  when  life  runs  low; 
Others  of  gorgeous  yellow,  like  gold  in  a  kingly 

crown, 
And  some  of  a  royal  purple,  dusted  with  softest 

down. 

Some  of   a  creamy  whiteness,  touched  to  a  rosy 
blush, 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS.  7 

As  the  snow  of  the  lovely  Jungfrau  warms  with 

the  sunset  flush ; 
Some    flame,    at    the    heart,    pearl-petaled ;    and 

lavender-hued  are  some ; 
Yet  each  of  them,  crude  or  cultured,  just  a  brave 

Chrysanthemum. 

Like  these  have  I  known  some  women,  fearless 

where  others  fail; 
Blooming  in  wintry  weather,  despite  of  the  wild 

wind's  bale; 
Brilliant  with  steadfast  brightness ;  young  as  the 

youngest  lass ; 
Formed,  too,  as  the  full-leaved  Dahlia,  or  Daisy 

at  Michaelmas  ; 

Shedding  the  spirit's  fragrance  over  a  sea  of 
frost ; 

Crowning  with  noontide  graces  life  to  the  spring- 
time lost; 

Filling  with  cheerful  vigor  places  wherein  they 
come, 

As  the  air  is  freshened  to  gladness  by  the  brave 
Chrysanthemum. 


SLEIGH    BELLS. 


H,  the  falling  of  the  flakes 
In  these  mute,  weird  days  — 
Oh,  the  flakes  the  north  wind  shakes 

In  its  whirling,  swirling  ways  — 
Ye  are  but  a  preparation 

For  the  keenest  life  we  know ; 
Hearts  break  out  in  jubilation 

At  the  coming  of  the  snow ! 
The  sleds  from  out  the  cellar, 

And  the  cutter  from  the  loft, 
O'er  which  summer  was  a  jailer 

Now  are  gladdening  the  soft 
Fleecy  whiteness ;  and  the  laughter 

Of  the  children,  and  the  bells 
Shaken  loose  athwart  the  rafter, 

Each  with  merry  promise  swells. 
Oh,  the  falling  of  the  flakes, 

Falling,  falling,  softly  falling  — 


SLEIGH    BELLS. 

Oh,  the  earth  in  dreams  a-calling 

For  more  covering  ere  she  wakes ; 
Oh,  the  pearls  the  snow  is  twining 

Round  the  trees'  minutest  stems, 
Waiting,  waiting  for  the  shining 

Of  the  sun  to  fire  the  gems ; 
Oh,  the  music  of  the  bells, 

Stirred  to  fitful  palpitation, 
And  the  hope  that  upward  wells 

Through  the  snow's  sweet  liberation  ! 
Oh,  the  falling  of  the  flakes, 

Falling,  still  so  softly  falling, 
And  the  pure  white  joy  it  makes, 

World-enthralling ! 
See  !    the  passive  joy,  yet  pregnant 
Of  the  wild  joy  that  is  regnant 

When  the  sun  calls  out  the  bells  — 
Wakes  the  jingling,  jocund  jingling, 
Wakes  the  free  roulade  of  jingling 

Of  the  sleigh's  impatient  bells  ! 


Oh,  the  sun  upon  the  snow 
In  these  clear,  bright  days 


SLEIGH    BELLS. 

Oh,  the  glitter  of  the  glow, 

Wrought  of  gold  and  crystal  rays  — 
Ye  are  yielding  in  fruition, 

Rare,  ripe  clusters  of  the  joy 
That  was  but  an  intuition 

Yesterday,  to  girl  and  boy ! 
Now,  the  sleds  are  coasting  gaily, 

Down  the  whitely  mantled  hill, 
And  no  single  shadow,  grayly, 

In  the  crisp  noon  bodeth  ill. 
Scarlet  capes  and  woolen  mufflers 

Half  the  dainty  darlings  hide, 
Whom  the  ruddy,  roystering  shufflers 

Promise  soon  to  give  a  ride. 
Oh,  the  chubby,  wrapped-up  Graces ! 

One  from  other  who  could  tell? 
Roses  peeping  through  their  faces  — 

Throwing  snow-balls  round,  pell-mell 
And  the  skaters  pirouetteing 

On  their  skates  of  burnished  steel  ! 
And  the  fun  when  sleds  upsetting 

Riders  tumble  head  o'er  heel ! 
Oh,  the  ringing  of  the  voices, 

Shouting,  screaming, 


SLEIGH    BELLS.  II 

While  the  answering  air  rejoices, 

Sharply  stinging ! 
Hark !    the  noisy  mirth  yet  pregnant 
Of  a  joy  that  shall  be  regnant 

When  the  moon  calls  out  the  bells  — 
Wakes  the  jingling,  dulcet  jingling, 

Of  the  sleigh's  resilient  bells ! 


in. 


Oh,  the  moon's  resplendent  light 

In  the  hushed,  white  days  — 
When  above,  below,  the  night 

Is  with  sheen  of  snow  ablaze  ; 
When  the  milky-way  of  angels 

To  fresh  stars  has  given  birth, 
And  Love's  luminous  evangels 

Lie  unfolded  on  the  earth  ! 
Oh,  not  strange  such  lucubration, 

Tempting  love  to  read  it  right, 
Proves  a  peerless  invitation 

To  the  maiden  and  her  knight ! 
And  not  strange  that  coursers  airy. 

Shod  with  softly  feathered  shoon, 


SLEIGH    BELLS. 

Bear    the  two  to  realms  of  faery, 

Where  ring  bells  in  wedding-tune ; 
Where  the  dream-land  bells  are  chiming 

With  the  strings  of  bells  so  sweet  — 
Liquid  bells  that  go  a-rhyming 

To  the  coursers'  dancing  feet. 
Oh,  these  last  are  nigh  forgotten, 

In  the  tingle  and  the  flush 
Of  the  bliss  and  sigh  begotten 

Of  the  first  kiss  and  its  blush ! 
Yet  with  fresher  inspiration 

Fall  the  dancing,  prancing  feet, 
While  the  bells  in  new  libation 

Seem  more  sweet ! 
List !    in  chorus  ever  pregnant 
Of  a  future  joy  more  regnant, 

How  the  moon  inspires  the  bells ! 
Wakes  the  jingling,  tenderest  jingling. 
Wakes  the  soft  roulade  of  jingling 

Of  the  sleigh's  mellifluous  bells  ! 

IV. 

Oh,  the  magic  of  the  snow 
In  these  blithe,  cold  days, 


SLEIGH    BELLS.  13 

When  both  young  and  old  o'erflow 

With  their  life's  unconscious  praise  ! 
When  the  young  heart's  ready  keys 

Stir  unbidden  with  sweet  numbers, 
And  the  old  heart's  memories 

Break  in  rhythm  from  their  slumbers. 
Oh,  the  precious  dews  of  heaven, 

Making  fair  the  summer  flowers, 
Are  not  more  divinely  given 

Than  the  frost  of  winter  hours! 
I  lither  falls  a  stainless  vision 

Till,  above  the  billowy  snow, 
Bells  ring  out  in  blent  allision 

To  and  fro. 
Swelling  drifts  o'ertop  the  fences, 

Burying  boundaries  from  the  sight  ; 
Infinite  whiteness  thrills  the  senses 

With  delight. 
Oh,  the  fallen  flakes  are  pregnant 
Of  a  joy  forever  regnant, 

When  their  charm  invokes  the  bells  — 
Wakes  the  quick  and  mellow  jingling, 
Wakes  the  rich  roulade  of  jingling, 

Of  the  sleigh's  enlivening  bells ! 


A    SYLVAN    SEARCH. 


ROM  tales  of  rural  gods  I  rose, 
And  sought  them  in  the  woody  deeps, 
Where  held  in  shadowy,  sweet  repose, 

The  sunshine  like  Endymion  sleeps  — 
Where  murmurous  waters  softly  sing 
To  listening  branches  bended  low, 
And  tuneful  birds  on  ready  wing, 
As  Zephyrus,  gently  come  and  go. 

ii. 

Vainly  I  sought  the  gods,  yet  heard 

Their  spirits  whisper  thus  to  mine  : 
"Who  seeks  us  finds  the  forests  stirred 

By  myriad  voices  all  divine  ; 
And  learns  that  still  the  mystic  spell, 

Of  fauns  and  dryads,  fills  the  place 
With  beauty  myths  have  failed  to  tell  — 

One  God  in  everv  hidden  face.'" 


THE    MONT    CENIS    TUNNEL 


France  and  Italy  first  shook  hands  through  the  opened  tunnel 
on  Christmas-day. 


HE  boom  of  the  cannon  is  over 
That  deafened  us  with  its  roar; 
The  trailing  crimson  of  carnage, 

Dread  demons  of  conflict  wore  — 
Unlike  the  robe  of  the  Master, 

Which,  touched,  bade  sin  to  cease  — 
Is  lifted  in  sad  folds  slowly, 

From  the  steps  of  the  goddess,   Peace  ! 

Slowly  and  wearily  lifted  — 

Its  fringes  and  tarnished  gold, 
Humid  with  life-ebbing  currents 

And  burdened  with  grief  untold  ; 
Yet  Peace,  with  her  trooping  children, 

Fleecily  draped  in  white, 
Shall  over  the  stained  fields  gather 

And  cover  the  deadly  blight. 


l6  THE    MONT   CENIS    TUNNEL. 

Bathed  in  the  light  of  her  presence 

France  will  be  joyous  anew, 
Gaily  forgetting  in  sunshine 

The  shade  which  the  cypress  threw 
Even  now  the  voices  of  miners 

Deep  in  the  Alpine  chain  — 
Lost  amid  clangor  of  battle  — 

Echo  the  resonant  strain : 


Echo  the  Christmas  greeting, 

That  rung  through  each  rock-ribbed  hall, 
As  they  forced  the  lock  of  the  mountain, 

And  shattered  its  hindering  wall. 
War  and  its  train  of  evils 

In  the  past  shall  forgotten  be, 
While  dawneth  a  radiant  morrow 

Through  the  tunnel  of  Mont  Cenis ! 


A  dawn  where  brave  Faith  is  standing 
With  her  veil  unloosed  for  aye, 

As  she  looks  down  the  open  pathway 
So  trammelled  but  yesterday. 


THE    MONT    CENIS    TUNNEL.  1 7 

Fitting  she  deems  Christ's  birthday 

For  this  birth  of  a  fuller  time, 
A  larger  civilization, 

A  clasping  of  hands  sublime. 


But  the  meeting  of  Gaul  and  Roman 

Is  little,  to  eyes  which  see 
That  a  babe,  the  father  of  giants, 

Is  delivered  of  Mont  Cenis. 
Yes,  she  is  a  Titan-mother, 

And  her  stony  heart  has  thrilled 
To  the  voice  of  the  Cyclop.  Science, 

Who  hath  ruled  her  as  he  willed. 


Willing  and  winning  her  fealty, 

See,  they  are  one  in  soul  — 
Day  after  day  have  been  trending 

Earnestly  to  the  goal ; 
Till  now  in  jubilant  measure, 

Over  the  unsealed  stone, 
The  workmen  cheer  to  the  triumphs 

Which  for  toilsome  years  atone, 


l8  THE    POEM. 

Thirteen  years  of  waiting  — 

For  the  fruit  of  hidden  toil! 
From  the  granite  of  trust  and  labor, 

Felt  Science  no  recoil  ? 
No  ;  though  grave  heads  were  doubting 

That  failed  the  end  to  see, 
Patient  he  stood,  and  loyal 

To  Faith  and  Mont  Cenis. 


THE    POEM. 


HAT'S  a  poem  ?     Something  more 
Than  the  royal  fact  of  prose ; 


Prose,  though  masterful  its  store, 
Nothing  half  so  subtile  knows  : 
'Tis  the  attar  of  the  rose  — 

'Tis  divinest  lore. 


THE    POEM.  19 

II. 


'Tis  a  dream  of  truth  begot, 
Floating  in  an  upper  air, 

Sweet  as  any  Angelot, 
Lifting  aspiration  where 
Earthly  greed  and  earthful  care 

Are  awhile  forgot. 

in. 

'Tis  the  something  under  sun 
Which  no  critic  can  define, 

All  the  while  convincing  one 
That  it  is  a  breath  divine  : 
'Tis  the  sparkle  of  the  wine 

When  its  beads  up-run. 

IV. 

'Tis  of  life  the  inner  soul, 
And  of  death  the  starry  core  ; 

'Tis  of  art  the  living  coal 
Kindled  on  a  farther  shore, 
Skyward  burning  more  and  more 

To  its  finished  goal. 


20  WILLY  S    WIFE. 

V. 

'Tis  the  God  within  the  breast 
Love-compelling  them  who  see 

To  expression,  which  is  rest  — 
Rest,  in  uttered  harmony : 
This,  the  poem  — verily  — 

God-thought  manifest ! 


WILLY'S    WIFE 


HE  road  is  long  and  rough,  you  see, 
Far  stretching  o'er  the  prairie ; 
And  if  his  father  went  —  well,   I 
Must  stay  and  mind  the  dairy. 
Perhaps  an  idle  tear  I  dropped 

To  see  him  mount  the  filly, 

And  go  alone  to  bless  the  bans 

Of  our  dear  boy,  our  Willy! 


WILLY  S    WIFE.  21 

A  week  of  days  is  passed  since  then, 

Each  longer  than  the  other, 
So  strange  it  is  to  think  he's  wed 

And  I  not  there  —  his  mother  ! 
So  strange,  when  he  a  toddling  thing 

Got  all  my  care  so  freely; 
Well,  care  and  kisses  wait  today 

For  Willy's  wife  and  Willy. 


What's  that  you  say  ?    That  I've  not  seen, 

And  so  I  may  not  love  her ! 
Not  love  his  love  !    Why,  troops  of  girls 

Might  lift  their  heads  above  her  — 
Ay,  all  the  girls  might  fairer  be 

In  bloom  of  rose  and  lily, 
But  dearer  than  the  best  to  me 

Would  be  the  wife  of  Willy. 


Tis  true,  he's  young.     'Twere  well,  perhaps, 

He'd  waited  just  a  little  : 
A  lover's  chain  too  sudden  wrought 

May  prove,  alas !    but  brittle. 


22 


Yet  old  folks  often  make  mistake 
In  thinking  young  folks  silly  — 

And  what's  the  use  to  question  now, 
She's  wife  of  my  boy  Willy? 


Oh,  ay,  be  sure,  some  other  might 

Have  lined  with  gold  his  pocket; 
But  I  have  seen  full  many  a  stick 

Come  down  from  dear-bought  rocket. 
And  yet,  I  hinted  to  the  boy 

His  own  short  purse — and  still  he 
But  scorned  the  hint.     Well,  love's  enough 

To  dower  the  wife  of  Willy. 


For,  Willy,  let  me  tell  you  now, 

Is  not  the  one  to  falter 
In  doing  what  an  honest  man 

Has  promised  at  the  altar; 
'Twill  be  no  fault  of  idle  ways 

In  him,  if  times  prove  chilly : 
No  need,  I  wis,  for  aught  but  love 

With  this  young  wife  of  Willy. 


willy's  wife.  23 

And  if  a  wife  bring  love,  I'm  sure 

'Twill  make  a  mother  kindly ; 
The  mother,  if  she's  wise  at  all, 

Will  scan  a  little  blindly; 
For,  smooth  the  ruts  as  smooth  we  may, 

Life's  path  must  yet  be  hilly ; 
There's  many  a  flint  to  prick  the  feet 

Of  even  the  wife  of  Willy ! 


So,  keep  your  doubts ;  no  longer  jest 

Because  I'm  anxious  waiting 
To  clasp  my  darlings  to  my  breast, 

And  bless  their  early  mating. 
I  spake  full  loud  to  stay  the  match  — 

But  now  my  finger  stilly 
Is  placed  upon  my  lips,  since  she 

Is  mine,  the  wife  of  Willy. 


She's  Willy's  wife,  and  so  she's  mine  — 
My  own  dear,  darling  daughter  — 

If  they're  one  flesh  they're  but  one  blood, 
And  thicker  'tis  than  water. 


24  WILLY'S    WIFE. 

Then  hold  your  peace  about  the  charms 

Of  Susan  or  of  Milly; 
I  tell  you,  friend,  she's  best  of  all, 

This  wife  of  my  boy  Willy. 


Lo !    here  they  are,  the  precious  pair  — 

My  precious  boy,  my  rover ; 
And  with  him  one  to  crown  his  days  : 

Look !    who  could  help  but  love  her  ? 
Come,  father,  shut  the  cabin  door, 

The  winds  without  blow  shrilly, 
But  what  care  we  beside  the  fire 

With  Willy's  wife  and  Willy! 


The  bread  is  white  upon  the  board, 

The  kettle  bravely  simmers, 
The  red  flame  dances  up  the  wall, 

Where  shining  pewter  shimmers ; 
Kind  neighbors  grasp  our  Willy's  hand, 

In  welcome  —  will  he  nil  he; 
Oh,  happy  day  that  lights  the  home 

With  Willy's  wife  and  Willy. 


A    BENEDICTION. 


HE  common  air  is  affluent  of  sweet 
Attuned    to    love     divine  —  for    which    still 
wait 

The  yearning  years  of  human  love's  estate  : 
Outborne  a  zephyr  now,  with  balm  replete 
It  bathes  an  aching  brow  or  weary  feet ; 
And  now,  a  perfume  unadulterate, 
As  fragrance  overfloating  heaven's  gate, 
Gladdens  the  spirit  that  it  stirs  to  meet. 

The  simplest  thing  will  waken  pure  delight, 

And  thrill  the  present  with  prophetic  tone  — 
Why,  just    a    low  "  God    bless   you "  breathed   last 
night, 
By  lips  pledged  loyally  to  truth  alone, 
Touched  —  through    the    virtue    that    such    words 
invite  — 
My  very  soul,  and  made    the   grace    mine    own ! 

25 


DELIVERANCE. 


I. 
HE  bird  untutored  to  the  narrow  cage, 
With  fluttering  wing  strikes  vainly  at  the  wire 
That  circumscribes  his  freedom  —  grief  and  rage 

By  turn  subdue  and  set  his  soul  on  fire 
(If  birds  have  souls),  till,  yielding  to  his  fate, 
He  sings  and  sings  his  little  life  away: 
Be  still,  my  soul,  and  wait; 

A  better  day 
Will  come,  or  soon  or  late. 
n. 
A  sweetness  comes  to  every  captured  thing 

In  time,  through  time's  absolvent  ministry ; 
It  may  be  Death  whose  arms  the  solace  bring, 

Or  Peace  may  compass  the  captivity: 
Whate'er  inures,  fools  only  fight  with  fate  — 
Philosophy  propounds  an  easier  way  — 
Be  still,  my  soul,  and  wait ; 

A  better  day 
Will  come,  or  soon  or  late. 
26 


DELIVERANCE.  27 


III. 


The  lion,  caught  to  please  the  gaping  crowd. 

May  dream  of  Afric's  sun  and  bite  his  chain. 
And  roar  his  rampant  agony  aloud, 

Whose  nearest  hunting-ground  is  death's  domain ; 
The  captured  fly  a  truce  may  win  of  fate, 

And  buzz  an  hour  yet,  in  the  sun's  bright  ray  — 
Be  still,  my  soul,  and  wait ; 

A  better  day 
Will  come,  or  soon  or  late. 

IV. 

Hearts  break,  but  not  the  bars  of  destiny ; 

Fools'    hearts    I    mean.       The    wise    man    seeks 
God's  will, 
And  finds  it  wheresoe'er  his  lot  may  be  ; 

Thus  panoplied  his  fretted  thought  grows  still. 
Conscious  that  God  alone  is  Lord  of  fate. 

And  that  his  strength  can  gird  us  when  we  say. 
"  Be  strong,  O  soul !    and  wait 
The  better  day 
That  comes,  or  soon  or  late." 


REST. 


PRECIOUS  Rest  that  follows  pain  ! 
Unutterably  sweet  art  thou. 
Whose  presence  soft,  again,  again, 

Has  sealed  with  peace  my  aching  brow. 

From  some  divinest  realm  above 

With  noiseless  step  thou  drawest  near, 

And  out  of  vials  filled  with  love 
Pourest  a  balm  of  tender  cheer. 

We  shrink  away  from  dreary  Pain ; 

Yet  she  it  is  who  flings  the  gates 
Apart  for  thee  !    In  vain,  in  vain, 

Without  her  help  thy  blessing  waits. 

Thy  sandaled  foot  of  velvet  tread, 
Thy  pliant  gown  of  fleecy  fall, 

Thy  breath  of  silence  round  my  head, 
Are  only  pain's  sweet  servants,  all ! 

2s 


REST.  29 

Alone  by  darkening  shades  we  know 

The  glory  of  the  vanished  light  — 
The  Morning  glows  with  richer  glow 
Just  loosened  from  the  clasp  of  Night. 

O  Rest,  thou  angel  born  of  Pain  — 
O  Night,  that  yieldeth  Day"s  caress  — 

O  Faith,  with  doubtings  in  thy  train  — 
Ye  all,  in  turn,  are  bom  to  bless  ! 

Thank  God,  it  is  not  ours  "o  choose 
And  idly  hold  what  seemeth  best ; 

The  pain,  the  doubt,  the  dark  refuse. 
And  miss  the  hallowed  touch  of  rest ! 


THE    RUSTIC    LOVERS. 


WO  artless  souls  I  met  today  — 
A  pair  of  rural  lovers ; 


As  lightsome  and  as  careless  they 
As  aught  the  sunshine  covers. 

Stray  moths,  that  float  the  warm  air  through, 
Had  wingless  seemed  beside  them, 

Who,  wholly  glad,  had  nought  to  do 
With  what  might  yet  betide  them. 

Along  the  stone-paved  street  they  stept, 

As  if  in  clover  walking; 
And  of  the  crowd  no  record  kept, 

Each  to  the  other  talking. 

I  could  not  hear  a  word  they  said, 

Yet  quick,  returning  glances, 
Between  them,  spoke  of  spirits  wed 

Like  those  in  old  romances. 
30 


THE    RUSTIC    LOVERS.  3 1 

The  satchel  swinging  on  his  arm. 

His  garments  quaintly  fitted, 
Her  old-time  dress  yet  girlish  charm. 

All  held  me  while  they  flitted. 

I  saw  they  would  not  barter  one 

Of  either's  valued  kisses. 
For  any  riches  under  sun 

That  make  up  meaner  blisses. 

And  then  I  thought  how  heaven  comes  down, 

To  bless  the  simple-hearted, 
Who  have  no  care  for  fashion's  frown  — 

No  fear  but  to  be  parted. 

I  thought,  too,  if  the  world  but  knew 

The  half  of  what  it  loses 
By  slighting  love,  in  shame  'twould  rue 

The  meagre  life  it  chooses. 

Yet  nothing  recked  the  happy  pair, 

Of  such  a  lesson  needed 
By  folk  overlooked,  while  passing  there 

Themselves  as  little  heeded. 


32  THE    RUSTIC    LOVERS. 

All  unconcerned  they  dreamed  not  why 
I  scanned  their  tell-tale  faces; 

And  pitied  unloved  ones  go  by 
To  cold,  heart-lonely  places. 

These  softly  laughed,  delighting  each. 

Quite  heedless  of  the  weather, 
Supremely  blest  one  goal  to  reach 

Linked  arm  in  arm  together. 


IN     MIDWINTER. 


|ILD  is  the  wind  that  blows  and   blows ; 
It  riddles  the  snow  on  the  level  plain  , 
It  cuts  my  heart  as  it  sharply  mows 

The  whitened  meadow  that  knows  no  pain ; 
For  I  think  of  one  who  is  far  from  me, 
And  whose  life  is  risked  on  the  ruthless  sea. 


IX    MIDWINTER. 


33 


I  see  in  a  vision  the  great  ship  tost, 

As  the  tree-top  swings  and  the  branches  fly, 

And  I  shiver  with  more  than  the  chilling  frost, 
At  what  may  be   passing  'twixt  sea   and   sky— 

Hark !   did  I  hear  the  strong  mast  split  ? 

'Tis  a  fence   which  the   splintering  wind   has   hit 


The  rails  fly  hither  and  yonder,  sent 
By  the  hurricane's  breath  on  a  mad  career; 

How  may  the  ship  that  today  out-went, 
Safe  in  the  whirlwind's  courses  steer  ? 

Oh,  Lord  of  the  storm,  on  bended  knee, 

I  pray  that  my  own  come  back  to  me. 


The  prayer  or  its  answer  solace  brings:  — 

I  mind  me  the  wind  from  the  south-west  fares ; 

And  the  giant  strength  of  its  unseen  wings 
Haply  to  harbor  the  good  ship  bears. 

Yet  hope  goes  down  ere  its  joy  uplifts, 

As  I   think  how  the  treacherous  wind-wave  shifts. 


34  IN    MIDWINTER. 

Even  now  from  the  south  it  is  charged  with  rain 
Rain  that  freezes  within  its  clasp  ; 

And  now  from  the  east  on  the  window-pane 
It  lays  an  icy  and  rattling  grasp  — 

Do  I  hear  the  crash  of  a  foundered  wreck  ? 

'Tis  only  the  wind  that  feels  no  check : 


Tearing  the  shingles  off  of  the  roof, 
Swinging  the  window  blinds  to  and  fro, 

Swirling  by  force  of  its  iron  hoof 

The  half  of  an  elm  to  the  ground  below. 

I  shut  out  the  ruin,  I  cover  my  head, 

To  dream  of  ruinous  waves  instead. 


I  dream  of  all  horrors  of  storm  at  sea; 

I  dream  of  my  own   there,  struggling,  wrecked ; 
And  still  as  I  dream  sleep  flies  from  me, 

And  prayer  like  the  wind  goes  forth  unchecked  :  — 
—  Oh,  Lord  of  the  tempest,  draw  thou  nigh  ! 
Say  to  him,  "  Be  not  afraid ;  it  is  I." 


THE    DIFFERENCE 

TO   M.   J.    P. 


PRING  is  fitful,  coy,  you  say, 
Even  in  your  Southern  bound ; 
Like  a  willful,  laughing  maiden 
With  superfluous  life  o'erladen, 
Kissing  one  with  smiles  today  — 
Later,  sweet  hope  to  confound, 
Breathing  a  defiant  scoff, 
Moved  to  brush  the  kisses  off! 


Now,  our  Spring  is  much  too  simple 

In  a  helpless  babyhood, 
Yet  to  show  one  roguish  dimple 

Born  of  gay,  coquettish  mood : 
Here,  among  the  Northern  hills, 
Winter's  scarcely  loosened  rills, 

While  they  break  their  icy  tether, 
Tell  us  somewhat  of  her  birth ; 


36  THE    DIFFERENCE. 

Still,  we  have  to  question  earth 
Very  closely,  and  the  sun, 

As  they  sit  at  feast  together, 
Of  the  long  expected  one  — 
Whether  she  in  baby-wrappings 
Or  in  shorter,  girlish  trappings, 
Lives,  where  none  of  us  may  see, 
Ripening  in  earth's  nursery? 

Sometimes  we  have  rare  replies; 
As  when  Robin  breaks  the  spell, 
Of  accustomed  winter's  reign, 
By  some  rich,  delicious  swell 
Of  the  song  he  brings  again 
From  the  spice-lands — while  he  flies 
Here  and  there  from  tree  to  tree, 
And  from  ragged  fence  to  fence, 
Peering  round  excitedly 
For  a  place  of  residence. 
Hearing  him,  we  look  and  lo! 
On  his  breast  the  tropics  glow; 
In  his  voice  old  summers  sing, 
And  kind  nature  stays  his  wing, 
Blesse'd  surety  of  the  Spring ! 


THE   DIFFERENCE.  37 

Thus  we  know  the  maiden  grows. 

So  we  listen  at  the  door, 

Where  are  yet  some  drifted  snows; 

And  with  gratitude  rejoice ; 

For  we  hear  a  lisping  voice 
As  of  child  in  pinafore, 

Saying  slow  its  A  B  C  — 

Slow ;  but  with  intensity 
Bent  upon  the  dog-eared  pages, 
Thumbed  alike  through  countless  ages, 
By  young  Springs,  that  fretted  o'er 

All  the  signs  from  bulbous  B, 

To  the  mazy  letter  Z, 

Just  as  earnestly  as  she. 

Melting  thus  the  frost  away 

Of  the  fair  child's  ignorance, 

Little  drops  are  heard  to  dance 
To  a  music  hid  from  day; 
But  the  music  is  so  low 

It  will  take  a  loving  ear 
To  be  sure  the  hindered  flow 

Means  that  lily-bells  are  near. 

Spring,  indeed,  is  really  here, 


3&  THE    DIFFERENCE. 

Though  a  tender  nurse  and  mother 
Keep  her  out  of  sight  in  fear 

Of  some  sad  mischance  or  other 
To  her  beauty. 

So,  'tis  clear 

That  the  toying  and  coquetting 
Of  our  girl  is  but  delayed; 
While  your  larger  Southern  maid 

Flings  the  jasmine's  honeyed  nectar 
Over  field  and  over  wood ; 
Or,  to  suit  some  wayward  mood 
Just  for  mischief  blows  a  blast 
On  the  horn  of  winter  past. 

But  old  winter's  very  self, 

Backed  by  many  a  blatant  elf 
Holds  with  loosening  hand  the  scepter 
Of  our  darling !     To  detect  her 
In  her  scarcely  budded  setting, 

One,  a  devotee  must  be. 

And  must  listen  patiently 
To  the  lesson  she  is  getting 

At  dear  mother  nature's  knee. 


WHICH? 


HIS  ship,  with  taut  and  straining  sail, 
Goes  laboring  through  a  leaden  sea; 


Bleak  winds  about  it  countervail, 
And  black'ning  skies  bend  sullenly. 


II. 


That  gaily  hugs  the  other  shore, 
Across  where  noon  its  glory  sheds  ; 

While,  bright  as  Euxine  waters  bore, 
A  golden  fleece  of  canvas  spreads. 


in. 


And  yet  upon  one  tide  the  two 

Are  hastening  to  the  deeps  of  night. 

Who  knows,  when  later  lost  to  view, 
WThich  ship  shall  bask  in  fullest  light  ? 


GODS    ACRE. 


LL  space  God's  acre  is.     No   narrow  bound, 
But  utmost  range  is  his  to  sow ; 
Each  futile  limit  and  ambitious  mound 
His  own  to  overthrow. 

Two  silent  angels  guard  the  sacred  place  : 

One  equal  with  the  Orient  is ; 
The  other,  purple-clad  with  solemn  grace, 

Claims  all  the  West  as  his. 

The  brighter  angel,  smiling,  scatters  seed, 
That  break  with  gladness  through  their  bars. 

Till  earth  seems  even  the  heavens  to  exceed 
With  multitudinous  stars. 

Follows  with  shadowy  wing,  the  angel  Death  ; 

The  lamps  of  day  fade  one  by  one ; 
While  yet  the  glory  flickered  by  his  breath 

To  shine  has  just  begun. 


BEST.  41 

So  these  twin  angels  do  God's  acre  till  — 

God's  acre  covering  land  and  sea : 
Their  interlacing  pinions  work  His  will, 

Fulfilling  Love's  decree. 


BEST. 


LITTLE  sooner  or  a  little  later  — 

What  matter,  pray, 
If  the  dread  summons  come  today,  tomorrow  ? 

If  soon,  we  may 
Be  saved  the  bearing  of  some  bitter  anguish ; 

Or,  if  more  late, 
A  few  short  hours  are  gained  for  life  to  burgeon  :  — 

This  boon  how  great 
And    precious    seeming !  —  albeit    quick    to    vanish 

Predestinate. 
Ah,  be  it  soon  or  be  it  later  coming, 

"Not  now,"'  we  cry, 


42  JOY. 

As   chill    the   winds    strike,    sweeping    down    from 
death-land ; 

"Hereafter,  I 
Shall  be  more  fitted  for  the  final  parting."  .  .  . 

Yet  best  the  fate, 
Whose  unrescinded  law  refuses  option 

To  shrinking  sense, 
And  by  inexorable  firmness  praises 

Omnipotence. 


JOY. 


WEET  things  by  bitter  are  so  closely  chased, 
Smiles   droop   so  soon  to  withering  trouble 
wed, 
The  softest  skies  with  gloom  so  quick  are  spread, 
And  over  life,  death  stalking  makes  such  haste, 
We  wonder  if  enjoyment  be  not  waste 
Of  priceless  pearls  of  time,  or  rubies  red 
Of  vital  power,  bestowed  by  God  instead 
For  soberer  uses. 


LIFE.  43 

But,  O  Love,  the  taste 
Of  just  one  joy  of  thine  can  turn  the  tide 
Of  such  reflection,  while  flow  in  to  chide 
Warm  seas  of  rarest  perfume  at  my  feet ! 

Then,    come    life,    come    with    death,    while  joy, 

though  small, 
Has  virtue  thus  to  crown  herself  o'er  all, 
And  fill  earth's  wilderness  with  heaven's  sweet. 


LIFE. 

I. 
IFE  is  a  rose,  brier-burdened,  yet  sweet, 
Blooming  a  day; 


Flinging  its  perfume  like  perfume  to  meet, 

Wind-blown  away. 
ii. 
Leaf  after  leaf  spreads  its  blush  to  the  air, 

Kissed  by  the  sun ; 
Deeper-hued  growing  as  joy  makes  it  fair, 

Love's  guerdon  won. 


LIFE. 


III. 


Leaf  after  leaf  shrivels  up  from  the  heart, 

Leaving  it  bare ; 
Color  and  fragrance  and  joy  all  depart, 

None  left  to  care. 

IV. 

Nay,  the  divine  in  it  lingers  there  still, 

God's  care  in  all; 
Rose-leaves  but  fall  at  the  beck  of  His  will- 

Fetters  which  thrall. 

v. 

Up  from  its  trammels  the  freed  spirit  wings, 

Higher  to  soar; 
Attar  immortal  the  essence  that  flings 

Sweets,  evermore! 


AEROLITES 


[ROUBLE  that  shootest  in  such  startling  ways 

Out  from  the  heart  of  joy,  and  joy  that  brings 

From  the  great,  central  Heart,  on  swiftest  wings, 

A  light  ineffable,  in  whose  full  rays 

We  should  but  blinded  be  —  O  Joys  that  daze, 

And    Trouble,    pointed    with     sharp     light'ning- 

stings  — 
We  would  the  secret  know  of  minist'rings 
Which  temper  you  unto  our  feeble  days? 


Joy  flashes,  trouble  falls,  and  yet  we  live  — 
Upborne  upon  a  sea  of  smiles  and  tears ; 
And  so,  in  the  economy  of  spheres, 

When  sudden  sun-bolts  through  dim  spaces  cleave, 
When  meteors  fall,  earth's  airy  currents  weave 
Resistance  to  the  havoc  that  inheres. 


UNSOLVED. 


|OW  it  baffles  —  the  problem  of  Life: 
The  sage,  who  the  riddle  would  read 


-to~> 


This  tangle  of  peace  and  of  strife  — 
Braves  a  battling  enigma  indeed. 

We  think  we  have  sounded  its  deep  — 
Lo  !    shallows  smile  mockingly  back  ; 

We  vow  but  the  sunshine  to  keep  — 
Lo!    clouds  prove  our  promise  a  wrack. 

The  gloom  of  some  tempest  passed  o'er, 
We  turn  to  a  blue  bit  of  sky  — 

Just  a  morsel  of  gladness,  no  more, 
Redeeming  the  sorrow  gone  by ! 

Fain,  at  times,  in  the  storm  we  would  die, 
Distrustful  of  comforting  breath ; 

And  yet,  if  the  spectre  draw  nigh, 

How  we  shrink  from  the  earnest  of  death 


UNSOLVED.  47 

Oh,  what  is  this  something  we  hold 

So  heedlessly  while  it  is  sweet? 
So  tenderly  when  it  is  old  — 

The  grave  yawning  under  our  feet  ? 

Ay,  clingingly,  when  the  cold  hand 
That  chills  us  with  terror  is  near ; 

But  lightly  when  Time,  with  his  sand 
Unwasted,  rings  laughter  at  fear ! 

This  something,  whose  healthfulest  glow 
Is  dashed  in  a  moment  by  pain  — 

Doom-shadowed  —  does  any  one  know, 
Or,  echoes  the  query  in  vain? 

Ah,  little  in  knowledge  we  say, 

Of  aught  which  eternity  spans ; 
Enough,  that  life's  mystical  way 

Is  ours,  though  it  blesses  or  bans  : 

Enough,  that  we  cannot  disown 

The  portion  we  sought  not  of  birth  — 

This  bloom,  half  divine,  that  has  grown 
From  seed  hidden  deep  in  the  earth  — 


48  UNSOLVED. 

This  power  that  has  dust  for  its  mould, 
And  waits  some  inscrutable  force, 

Ere  purified,  strong,  uncontrolled, 

It  springs  to  its  God-centered  source  ! 

Springs  upward  (how  else  ? )  to  the  light, 
From  which  it  has  parted  an  hour, 

To  find,  though  in  foldings  of  night, 
The  form  of  the  perfected  flower. 

Sweet  faith !    Happy  faith  that  upbears 
The  soul  through  each  questioning  stress, 

Till  wisdom  all  question  forswears :  — 
The  problem  unsolved,  answerless. 


NOW 


PON  my  bier  no  garlands  lay, 
To  shrivel  at  death's  icv  touch 


"  Pansies  for  thought "  bequeathed  today, 
Were  worth  a  thousand  such ! 

Rare  flowers  too  often  serve  the  pride 
Which  grants  them  —  naught  beside. 

No  lavish  tears  that  laggard  be, 
Pour  vainly  on  my  pulseless  clay; 

A  single  drop  of  sympathy 
Were  richer  boon  today ; 

Today  I  need  it  —  but,  thank  God, 
No  need  is  in  the  sod. 

Yield  now  the  sign,  or  let  me  go 
Unlaureled  into  waiting  space  ; 

Not  taunted  by  a  hollow  show 
Of  friendship's  tardy  grace  ; 

Not  mocked  by  fruits  that  would  not  fall 
Save  as  an  idle  pall. 


50  THE    ANGELS    OF    THE    DEW. 

Fair  blossoms  with  love's  dew-drops  wet. 
And  fondly  laid  in  folded  hands, 

Must  hold  the  grateful  spirit  yet 
While  wandering  in  strange  lands ; 

But  wounded  souls  the  meed  must  spurn 
That  only  Death  can  earn  ! 


THE    ANGELS    OF    THE    DEW. 


WAS    late    in    June  —  a    deepening    twilight 
crept 

Within  the  garden  wall ; 
No  shape  familiar  its  own  meaning  kept, 
But  shadowy,  vague  was  all. 

A  peace,  that  scarce  would  do  the  heavens  wrong, 

Reigned  softly,  and  caressed 
The  yielding  senses  ;    while  cicada-song 

Unhushed,  the  silence  blest. 


THE    ANGELS    OF    THE    DEW.  5] 

The  very  measure  of  the  long  drawn  notes, 

So  unlike  other  sound, 
And  heard  afar  from  myriad  hidden  throats 

Made  rest  the  more  profound. 

The  flowers  had  shut  their  eyes,  yet  breathed  per- 
fume 

As  children  do  in  sleep  : 
The  subtile  charm  was  theirs  of  living  bloom 

In  slumber  folded  deep. 

I  saw  through  space  an  angel  form  descend  — 

Or  in  my  lulled  repose 
I  felt  it  rather  —  slowly,  gently  bend 

Above  a  dreaming  rose. 

The  sweeping  wings  were  level ;    only  bowed 

The  star-illumined  head ; 
Rare  vesture  falling  like  a  fleecy  cloud, 

Soft,  with  the  twilight  wed. 

Divinest  lips  one  lingering  moment  rest 

Where  sleep  a  blush  enfolds : 
And  after,  sparkling  as  the  angel's  crest, 

The  rose  a  dewdrop  holds. 


52  THE   ANGELS    OF    THE    DEW. 

All  favored  Rose  —  methought ;  none  other  here 

But  hence  will  own  thy  power; 
When  lo !   more  spirits,  fair  as  this,  appear, 

Each  guardian  of  a  flower  — 

Each  with  a  glory  set  upon  his  brow ; 

Each  with  the  lucent  wings; 
Each  with  benignant  hands,  and  will  to  bow 

In  holy  minist'rings. 

Do  flowers  have  angels  then,  and  unto  us 

Come  no  sweet  angels  down  ? 
Unseen,  the  same,  yet  far  more  glorious, 

With  diamonded  crown, 

Await  our  need.     They  fill  the  fainting  cup 

Of  life  with  freshening  dews ; 
And  when  we  call  at  last,  they  bear  us  up 

Beyond  where  death  pursues. 


DREAMT  NG    EYES 


ELL  me,  O,  tell  me,  the  drift  of  the  dream 
Floating,  in  liquid  light,  over 
The    marge    of    those    blue    depths    of    wonderful 
gleam, 
That  lily-blooms  daintily  cover; 
Tell  me  the  rare  fancies  jealously  hid 
Under  each  down-drooping,  silken-fringed  lid. 

Show  me  the  vision  where  life  overstreams 

In  amethyst,  ruby  and  beryl ; 
Or,  better,  for  love's  sake,  the  vista  that  seems 

But  lonely,  o'ershadowed  and  sterile ; 
Thy  jewels  would  gleam  in  the  gold  of  my  heart  — 
Thy  poverty  waken  its  tenderest  art. 

O  eyes,  dreaming  eyes,  I  would  pass  through  your 
gate, 
To  the  innermost  truth  of  their  seeming ; 

S3 


54 


AP.BAYE    AUX    DAMES. 


Yet,  outside  their  holy  of  holies  must  wait  — 
Unmeasured  the  source  of  their  dreaming : 
Still  hopeless  I  question,  no  kind  voice  replies, 
And    I'm    lost  in    the    blue    of   two    soft,  dreaming 
eyes. 


ABBAYE    AUX    DAMES. 


|WEETEST  place  to  live  or  die  in, 
Lovely,  smiling,  fresh  to  view ; 
Hillocks  green  the  weary  lie  in 
Fallen  asleep  in  Hotel  Dieu ! 
Holy    living,   holy   dying,  where    each    path    seems 

good  and  true, 
Only   that    the    fatal    motto    haunts    us — "  Elks  ne 
sortent  plus." 

Haunts  us  with  a  thought  of  pressing 

All  the  ruby  from  the  rose ; 
By  an  ashen  hue  confessing 

Bloom  with  fragrance  idly  blows. 


ABBAYE    AUX    DAMES.  55 

Not  alone  are  flowers  protesting;    diamonds  flash 

forth  from  the  dew ; 
From  the  zenith  stars  are  gleaming ;  nought  saith, 

"Elks  ne  s  or  tent  plus" 


Nought  but  man  the  God  denieth, 

Spurning  boldly  of  His  good; 
Fearful  of  what  He  supplieth, 

Hiding  from  His  angry  mood ! 
Better  to  our  Christian  thinking,  mingled  rosemary 

and  rue, 
Than    the    heart's-ease    singly   blowing,   whispering 
11 E  lies  ne  s orient  plus." 


Through  each  life  some  knell  is  ringing, 

Closing  fast  a  garden  door, 
Dumb  to  all  our  tenderest  singing, 

Wildest  pleading,  evermore ! 
But   to   choose    this    cloistered    living  —  from    the 

sunshine  seek  the  yew ! 
No,  ah,  no !   till  God  has  said  it,  say  not,  "  Elles 
ne  sortent  plus" 


56  ABBAYE   AUX    DAMES. 

He  to  each  a  cross  is  sending, 

Meted  with  divinest  eye ; 
To  it  low  and  lower  bending  — 

Not  out-reaching  while  on  high 
He    retains    it;    not    rejecting   fairest    gems    that 

earth  bestrew  — 
We,  as  trustful  children  happy,  wait  His  "  Elks  nc 
s orient  plus." 


Gentle  sisters !    softly  gliding 

Where  your  sternest  duties  call, 
Can  there  be  an  angel  guiding 

When  in  stone  your  hearts  you  wall  ? 
Awe  and  love  for  your  devotion  to  our  Lord  such 

doubts  subdue  — 
But  with  Christ  came  liberation !   why  then,  "  Elks 
ne  sortent  plus  I " 


Thus  I  mused  as  sauntering  slowly 
Through  the  Abbaye  and  Hbtel, 

Where  les  dames  in  office  holy, 
Strive  in  goodness  to  excel. 


HARVEST.  57 

Still  I   mused    in  thought  conflicting,  till  the  truth 

its  radiance  threw : 
Truest    souls    bloom    best    in    freedom  —  not  when 

"  Elks  ne  sortent  plus." 


HARVEST 


UN-BATHED     and     blest     in     the     golden 
weather, 

Crowned  for  delight,  or  crowned  for  pain, 
Sheaved  as  ripe  grain  of  the  field  together, 
Covered  with  love  from  the  possible  rain  — 
One  are  the  hearts  that  were  yesterday  twain. 

Either  has  wandered  a  separate  jiver, 

Half  of  its  course  through  the  meadows  of  time  ; 

Here,  at  the  junction,  the  flood-gates  deliver 
All  of  their  wealth  from  a  varying  clime, 
Each  unto  each,  in  a  rhvthm  sublime. 


58  LOVE. 

Rapturous  moment  of  full  fruited  gleaning! 
Rapturous  blending  of  spirit  with  kin ! 

One  in  the  heavens  but  knoweth  the  meaning 
Of  tenderest  mystery  hidden  within 
This  meeting  of  waters  —  this  harvested  sheen. 


LOVE 


SEA,  deep  sea,  heart-pulsing  sea  — 
All-conquering  ruler  —  life  is  brave 

To  bend  to  thee,  as  wave  to  wave  ! 

Though  thou,  from  wreck,  may'st  hardly  save, 

(While  every  sense  thou  seek'st  to  lave 

In  fullest  tide  of  ecstasy) 

For  joy,  or  pain,  or  what  may  be, 

Through  all  that  serves  thee,  loyally, 

Thy  liege  am  I,  O  mastering  sea! 


love.  59 


II. 


O  sea,  blue  sea.  fair,  smiling  sea, 

With  feathered  crests  by  sunshine  smote  - 

In  days  gone  by.  I  launched  my  boat 

Gaily  on  thy  warm  waves  to  float 

For  aye  and  aye.     Sad  breakers  wrote 

Upon  the  shore,  how  recklessly 

A  tossing  billow  scatters  free, 

Of  fancied  bound,  youth's  hope  in  thee, 

Thou  shining,  storm-brewed,  changeful  sea 

in. 

Yet,  boundless  sea !    Unfathomed  sea ! 
If  on  the  sands  thy  shallows  beat, 
Thy  central  depth  knows  no  deceit. 
Where  once  I  sailed  I  walk  to  meet 
A  Form  that  stands  with  restful  feet, 
Crowning  thy  untamed  mystery  : 
Light  leads  my  footsteps  tenderly  — 
Upbearing  arms  outstretch  to  me  — 
And  Thou  art  mine,  Eternal  Sea ! 


HIDDEN    CROSSES. 


DO  not  ask  from  thee,  O  Lord, 
A  cup  of  reddest  wine ; 
I  do  not  ask  for  brightest  beams 

Upon  my  path  to  shine ; 
I  do  not  ask  in  fullest  fields 

My  busy  scythe  to  sway; 
I  only  ask  for  strength  to  lift 
The  crosses  in  my  way. 


Those  nameless  crosses  thou  alone 

Hast  searching  power  to  see  — 
Too  subtile  for  the  loving  ken 

Of  any,  Lord,  but  thee  !  — 
Those  crosses  wreathed  with  thorn-set  flowers 

Which  friends  unwitting  weave, 
And  by  imperfect  human  act 

The  wounded  spirit  grieve. 
60 


HIDDEN   CROSSES.  6 1 


I  do  not  ask,  O  gracious  Lord, 

For  bliss  bestowed  on  none  — 
To  know  and  to  be  fully  known 

By  each  beloved  one ; 
I  only  ask,  Omniscient  Love, 

Since  heart  is  sealed  to  heart, 
For  bravery  to  bear  the  thorns 

That  bid  the  tear-drops  start. 


The  ponderous  cross,  too  great  to  hide 

Incentive  to  despair  — 
Invokes  the  martyr  in  the  breast, 

Which  sternly  helps  to  bear 
The  measured  burden  all  deplore  ; 

But  human  sympathy 
Is  slow  to  reach  the  hidden  cross 

Thy  clear  eyes  only  see. 


Thou  who  alone  of  all  our  friends 

Hast  tasted  every  cup, 
And  by  the  bitterness  of  each 

Knowest  to  bear  us  up  — 


62  THE   CURSE    OF    CALGARTH. 

Oh,  give  me  grace  to  wear  my  cross 

A  secret  still  with  thee, 
And  live  in  the  sustaining  power 

Of  Thy  sufficiency! 


THE    CURSE    OF    CALGARTH 


N  the  northernmost  bound  of  Windermere, 
The  loveliest  gem  of  the  English  lakes  — 
Whose  silvery  flow  in  the  light  wind  shakes 
As  it  doubles  the  blue  sky,  soft  and  clear, 
Or  glasses  the  cloud-hills  fathoms  deep  — 
Here,  where  the  shores  fond  mem'ries  keep 
Of  more  than  one  master  of  minstrelsy, 
Stood  the  humble  home,  to  its  owners  dear, 
Of  Kraster  Cook  and  his  Dorothy. 


THE    CURSE    OF    CALGARTH.  63 

Calgarth  was  the  homely  name  it  wore, 
And  slenderly  noted  wears  today; 
For  the  guide-books  lead  us  another  way 
Than  the  road  to  Calgarth's  unfettered  door. 
'Tis  but  little  of  picturesque  it  owns ; 
Yet  a  legend  clings  to  the  mossy  stones, 
As  meet  for  a  Southey's  pen,  as  much 
Of  the  far-away  life  of  mystic  lore, 

That  caught  his  fancy  and  warmed  his  touch. 

Close  to  Calgarth  on  Windermere, 

Lay  a  broad  estate  of  wealth  begot  — 
So  broad  that  heaven  alone  knows  what 
Could  have  made  the  covetous  holder  peer 
With  a  jealous  eye  on  the  farmer's  mite. 
Yet  the  riddle  is  old  as  our  race  is,  quite, 
And  the  rich  Myles  Phillipson,   Magistrate, 
Burdened  with  acres,  sleek  with  cheer, 

For  the  field  of  his  neighbor  lay  in  wait. 

To  his  every  bribe  he  was  answered  "Nay;" 
But  Myles  swore  inly  he'd  have  the  place 
Be  they  "  lyve  or  dedde  ; "  and  he  waxed  apace 


64  THE    CURSE    OF    CALGARTH. 

More  kind  to  its  owners  day  by  day. 

Thus  the  days  made  weeks,  and  the  weeks  flew 

past, 
Till  the  snows  of  the  yule-tide  fell  at  last ; 
Then  the  'Squire  spread  feast  for  his   neigh- 
bors all  — 
For  rich  and  for  poor  as  was  then  the  way  — 
And  Kraster  heeded  the  friendly  call. 


Dame  Dorothy  donned  her  wedding  gown, 
In  lavender  laid  so  long  away ; 
And  Kraster  gave  to  his  locks  of  gray 
A  brighter  gloss  as  he  brushed  them  down 
Straight  o'er  his  forehead,  Vandyke-style  — 
Both  faces  made  fairer  through   hope,  the  while 
They  rode  on  one  saddle  keen  to  see, 
And  share  the  riches  of  far  renown 

That  smiled  in  the  Phillipson  treasury. 


The  hall  was  gay  in  its  Christmas  dress. 

Time  flew  ;  yet  the  wassail-bowl  still  was  sweet ; 
The  smoking  odors  of  wine  and  meat 


THE   CURSE   OF   CALGARTH.  65 

Still  savored  of  rollicking  happiness  ; 
Still,  the  tender  grace  of  the  mistletoe 
Tempted  new  dancers  to  and  fro; 

When  a  cry  was  raised  for  a  missing  cup  — 
A  cup  of  gold  that  was  worth  no  less 

Than  the  all  of  some  that  were  there  to  sup 


'Twas  Kraster  Cook  who  the  last  was  seen 
To  drink  therefrom  of  the  steaming  brew ; 
But  that  was  at  midnight ;    now,  'twas  two 
O'  the  clock ;    and  the  honest  pair  had  been 
Home  at  Calgarth  for  an  hour  in  bed  — 
Resting  as  honest  folk  do,  well  fed, 

Well  housed  from  the  cold,  and  nothing  loth 
To  turn  to  their  life  of  content  again, 

From  a  scene  of  revelling  new  to  both. 


Like  the  winter  night  that  lies  sleeping  long, 
The  farmer  lies  burthenless,  too,  asleep; 
But  soon  from  his  slumber,  soundly  deep, 


66  THE   CURSE   OF    CALGARTH. 

He  is  roused  by  a  knocking,  loud  and  strong, 
On  his  unlocked  door;    and  by  Dorothy 
Crying,  "Gudeman,  Kraster,  wake  and  see 
What  means  this  din  in  the  morning  gray; 
Tis  strange  indeed  for  such  noisy  throng 
To  come  at  all,  in  the  night  or  dav ! " 


Scarce  time  had  the  old  folk  clothes  to  don 
Ere  the  drunken  roisterers  tumbled  in : 
Some  good  men,  some  of  them  steeped  in  sin, 
All  flushed  from  'Squire  Phillipson's ;    bent  upon 
Righting  their  host  if  the  fact  turned  up 
That  Kraster  had  stolen  the  missing  cup. 

Some    thought    so,    some    doubted,    a    search 
would  tell  — 
In  the  kitchen,  the  cupboard  —  Ah!  there  it  shone; 
And  the  shout  that  rose  was  a  funeral   knell. 

I 

For  the  'Squire  was  magistrate  —  that   you   know; 
And   you've    thought   how   the   cup   in   the   cup- 
board came ; 
Since  you  cannot  forget  the  'Squire's  one  aim 


THE   CURSE   OF   CALGARTH.  67 

To  possess  Calgarth — by  any  means,  so 
No  land  of  another  should  bar  the  clear 
Line  of  his  vision  to  Windermere. 

Two  innocent  victims  —  what  were  they? 
[Theft  was  a  death-crime  years  ago] 
What,  indeed,  to  his  willful  way? 


Followed  a  trial  —  false  of  course; 

Of  justice  there  was  not  a  ray  of  hope 
For  the  fated  pair;   while  a  hempen  rope 
Swung  in  the  sentence  ;    and  no  remorse 
Softened  the  judge's  cruel  face. 
Sudden  uprose  in  the  prisoner's  place 
Old  Dorothy,  bold  in  her  rightful  ire  — 
And  the  court-room  shook  with  the  ominous  force 
Of  the  curse  she  hurled  at  the  'Squire. 


"  Fool !  vain  shalt  thou  guard  thyself  !  vain 
Shall  thy  hope  be  to  prosper !  thy  breed 
Shall,  henceforth,  be  subjects  of  greed, 


68  THE   CURSE   OF   CALGARTH. 

And  perish  of  loss  and  of  pain  ! 

Their  schemes  shall  all  wither  in  hand  ! 
Ere  long  not  an  inch  of  the  land 
Shall  be  his  that  a  Phillipson  owns ! 
And  in  wretched  Calgarth  you  never  again 
Shall  be  rid  of  us  haunting  its  stones ! 


The  'Squire's  beard  whitened  under  the  rain 
Of  Dorothy's  withering  speech ; 
Poor  Kraster  could  only  a  hand  outreach 
With  motion  of  protest  in  vain. 

His  timid  wife  was  now  brave  of  mien 
As  though  she  a  vision  of  grace  had  seen, 
And  further  cared  nothing  for  breath ; 
The  awe-stricken  people  for  mercy  were  fain, 
But  a  voice  muttered :    "  On  to  the  death." 


The  curse  to  the  end  was  fulfilled. 
Came  repentance,  if  ever,  too  late. 
Every  Phillipson  bowed  to  the  fate 


UNREST.  69 

That  the  pride  of  the  Phillipsons  willed. 
On  the  shore  of  the  lake  yet  is  told 
That  the  ghosts  were  not  laid  till  the  gold 
Of  each  Phillipson  dwindled  away : 
Not  till  all  of  the  race  had  been  stilled 
In  the  silence  that  deadens  decay. 


UNREST. 


EARY  of  all  the  vanities  of  earth, 
Weary  of  all  the  striving  after  good, 


We  sink,  as  impotent  children,  little  worth, 
Into  the  shelter  of  thy  Fatherhood, 
And  cry  — 
Uplift  us  with  thy  strength  who  else  must  die. 

Weary  of  high  imaginings  of  lives 

That  wholly  fail  in  light  of  thy  pure  brow, 


70  LOSS. 

We  turn  abashed  from  what  our  folly  strives 
To  emulate,  and  reverently  bow, 
And  cry  — 
There  is  none  good  but  Thou,  O  Lord,  most  high ! 

Weary  of  even  love  that  lures  us  on 

To  hope  we've  found,  at  last,  our  soul's  ideal, 

Wear}7,  unsatisfied,  and  yet  alone, 

Though  it  has  blest  us  with  its  presence  real, 
We  cry  — 

One  only  love,  Thine,  Lord,  can  satisfy! 


LOSS. 


LOST  my  treasures,  one  by  one, 
Those  joys  the  world  holds  dear: 


Smiling  I  said,  "Tomorrow's  sun 

Will  bring  us  better  cheer : " 
For  faith  and  love  were  one.     Glad  faith  ! 
All  loss  is  nought  save  loss  of  faith! 


ARCTIC    HEROES.  7  I 

II. 

My  truant  joys  came  trooping  back, 

And  trooping  friends  no  less  : 
But  tears  fall  fast  to  meet  the  lack 

Of  dearer  happiness : 
For  faith  and  love  are  two.     Sad  faith! 
'Tis  loss,  indeed,  the  loss  of  faith! 


ARCTIC    HEROES. 


ITTLE  know  we  who  live  within 
The  balmy  sphere  of  southern  breezes, 
Of  life  like  theirs  whose  ships  careen 

Where  northern  ice  the  red  blood  freezes. 
We  read  of  Nordenskiold  and  say, 
With  praiseful  breath  as  well  we  may, 
"Brave  sailor  he,  who  bravely  sailed 
And  found  the  way  where  all  had  failed." 


72  ARCTIC    HEROES. 

But  what,  in  blissful  ignorance 

Of  cold  that  falls  much  under  zero, 
Can  we  conceive  of  the  romance 
That  compasses  the  arctic  hero 
Within  the  aura  of  success  ?  — 
How  much  the  stress  of  bitterness 
Hidden  below  the  dauntless,  bold, 
Emprise  of  such  as  Nordenskiold  ? 


What  pain  ?     Not  only  such  as  stirred 

The  world  when  brave  Sir  John  was  missing; 

But  pain  whereof  no  note  is  heard  — 

Pain  which  through  lonely  lands  goes  hissing 

From  sharpened  lips  in  iterant  sound; 

From  shrinking  lips  when  it  is  found 

Expedient  by  men,  in  strait, 

To  leave  a  comrade  to  his  fate. 


As  differs  suffering,  so  does  that 
We  honor  by  the  name  of  glory  — 

Of  several  deeds  are  several  great 
Yet  varying  widely  in  the  story : 


ARCTIC    HEROES.  73 


Not  the  mere  pluck  of  human  plan 
Is  in  the  courage  of  the  man, 
Who  watches  all  his  helpmates  go 
And  waits  to  soothe  a  dying  woe  ! 


Oh,  tenderest  bravery  had  he1  — 

The  bravery  of  Christ's  foreshowing  — 

Who  in  De  Long's  perplexity 

Said,  "Go,  I'll  stay" — his  bosom  flowing 

With  love's  divinest  sympathy; 

And  who  for  love's  sake  dared  to  be 

Left  in  the  wilderness,  to  keep 

With  Death  a  lone  companionship. 


Close  sealed  is  much  of  kindred  fame 
To  gild  the  white  of  polar  pages, 

That  history  will  proudly  claim 

In  quick-forthcoming,  zealous  ages : 


1  Jerome  J.  Collins,  who  volunteered  to  stay  with  the  dying 
seaman,  Hans  Erickson,  and  let  the  others  of  De  Long's  party 
push  south. 


74  ARCTIC    HEROES. 

At  frigid  peaks  stand  fervent  men, 
As  on  the  rocks  of  Jan  Mayen, 
To  star-like  blaze  or  share  eclipse 
With  Science  in  her  daring  ships. 


The  world  is  young,  still  like  a  boy 

In  eagerness  to  grasp  at  prizes ; 
And  in  pursuit  of  promised  joy 
As  reckless  of  rare  sacrifices  ; 
So,  heroes  born  of  toil  and  pain 
Shall  come  and  pass  and  come  again : 
Some  famed  like  those  whom  seas  infold, 
And  some  in  life  like  Nordenskiold. 


IN    ANSWER. 


"  How,  Dearest,  wilt  thou  have  me  for  most  use  ? 
A  hope  to  sing  by  gladly  ?  or  a  fine 
Sad  memory,  with  thy  songs  to  interfuse  ? 
A  shade  in  which  to  sing,  of  palm  or  pine  ? 
A  grave  on  which  to  rest  from  singing?     Choose." 

Mrs.  Browning. 

|ID'ST   need   to  question   thy  best  use,  most 
rare 

Of  sweet-voiced  women  by  the  world  enshrined  ? 
Thou,  whose  rich  song  with  richer  thought  com- 
bined 
Is  manna  to  the  many,  free  as  air; 
Is  light  to  prisoned  love  which  may  not  dare 
Or  could  not  if  it  dared,  an  utterance  find, 
Equal  to  thine,  outleaping  all  its  kind, 
And  which  impassioned  souls  with  weeping  share ! 

Knew'st  not,  my  poet,  of  the  disesteem 
Of  self  begot  in  me  by  wealth  that  gave 

75 


76  LAISSER    LA   VERDURE. 

Two  crowns  —  imperial  love's  and  fame's  ?    Supreme 
Each  one ! 

With  thee  as  hope  and  palm,  oh,  brave 
My  life ! 

In  prescience  did'st  thou  shade  the  stream, 
Willing  me  memory's  pine  above  thy  grave  ? 


LAISSER    LA    VERDURE 

THE   LAST    WORDS   OF   GEORGE    SAND. 


|AYING  "Laisser  la  verdure," 
Fled  her  soul  of  flame  away 
From  its  bond  of  kindred  clay. 
Craved  she  grasses  sweet  and  pure  — 
Only  grass  above  the  bed 
Where  should  lie  her  laurelled  head  — 
Saying,  "  Laisser  la  verdure." 


LAISSER    LA    VERDURE.  77 


Of  a  smaller  heart  and  brain, 
She  had  sought  a  marble  pile 
World-remembrance  to  beguile ; 

But,  she  rather  showed  disdain 
For  the  carven  shaft  and  cross, 
Blatant  of  repeated  loss 

Of  the  smaller  heart  and  brain. 


in. 


"Laisser  la  verdure,"  she  sighed; 

And  they  thought  her  mind  astray. 

Nay !    her  mind  her  own  alway, 
Saw,  beyond  their  worldly  pride, 

Spires  eternal  in  the  sod  — 

And  in  them  the  smile  of  God  — 
"Laisser  la  verdure,"  she  sighed. 


IV. 


Poet,  to  the  latest  breath! 
Woman,  manifest  despite 
Man's  disguise  and  error's  blight! 


78  LAISSER   LA   VERDURE. 

She  would  have  her  wish  in  death 
Simple  truth  to  lie  beside  — 
She,  wno  shrank  from  truth  belied 

Poet,  to  the  latest  breath! 


v. 


Listen:    Laisser  la  verdure! — 
'  Tis  her  volumes'  finished  theme ; 
(Not  a  mere  romantic  dream.) 

At  the  bourn  she  knew  the  sure 
Note  of  peace,  and  gave  the  key- 
To  life's  sweetest  ministry  — 

Listen  :   Laisser  la  verdure. 


VI. 


"  Laisser  la  verdure  "  resounds 
From  her  heart  again,  again  ; 
Falls  it  like  the  gentle  rain 
On  the  summer's  sultry  bounds  — 
Flowers  lie  withered;   better,  best, 
Sheer,  green  grasses  promise  rest- 

"  Laisser  la  verdure  "  resounds  ! 


BIRTHDAYS 


"  Who  are  just  born  being  dead." 

IHO  weeps  when  love  a  cradled  babe  is  born  ? 
Rather   we   bring   frankincense,   myrrh,   and 
gold, 
While  softest  welcomes  from  our  lips  are  rolled, 
To  meet  the  dawning  fragrance  of  a  morn 
Of  checkered  being. 

Even  while  the  thorn 
Keeps  pace  with  rosy  graces  that  unfold, 
Do  we  with  rapture  cry,  "  Behold,  behold, 
A  heaven-dropped  flower  our  garden  to  adorn ! " 

And  yet  when  from  our  darling  fall  the  years, 
As  from  the  rose  the  shrivelled  petals  rain, 
And  into  newer  life  the  soul  again 

Springs  thornless  to  the  air  of  purer  spheres, 
So  blinded  are  we  by  our  bitter  pain, 

We  greet  the  sweeter  birth  with  selfish  tears. 

79 


YELLOW    JESSAMINE 


TO    P.    H.    H. 


IX  fain-  bells,  six   golden    bells    ring    out    in 

dulcet  way, 
And   tell    the    sunniest    tales    to   me,  on    this    chill 

April  day. 
Six  blended  bells,  six  radiant  bells  ring  forth  their 

rare  perfume, 
And  flood  me  with  the  melody  of  a  tropic  land  of 

bloom. 


Between  two  lancely  shields  of  green,  each  golden 

censer  swings, 
And,   heedless    of   our   northern    cold,   its    fragrant 

incense  flings. 
Each    chants    in    mellow   madrigals    of    whence    it 

hither  came, 
While  all  together  chime  as  one  of  a  land  of  song 

and  flame. 

So 


YELLOW   JESSAMINE.  8  I 

I  see,  in  that  they  sing  of  it,  a  pleasant  porch 
before 

A  southern  poet's  sylvan  home,  where  jessamines 
round  the  door 

As  sweet  as  these,  as  starry  bright,  'mid  just  such 
lance-like  leaves, 

Are  hung  a-trembling  in  the  air,  from  the  porch- 
base  to  its  eaves. 


Thrilled  with  the  fragrance  that  is  borne  by  these 

stray  bells  to  me, 
I    learn    by  what    they  yield,  how  rich,  how  richer 

far,  must  be 
The   gracious    tide    of    redolence    their   unplucked 

blossoms  pour, 
Beneath   a    native    southern    sky,    and    about    that 

cottage-door. 


O  golden  bells !    Ambrosial  bells !    I  deem  ye  are 

more  fair 
Than    other    bloom,    because    ye    grew    in    song's 

enchanted  air: 


82  A   VISION. 

Because  ye  speak  in  sun-bright  warmth  of  music's 

wondrous  role, 
And  how  it  flows,  in  odorous  sound,  from  one  true 

poet's  soul. 


A    VISION 


EEP  hid  within  the  wood 
My   strange,  new  home  oppressed   me   with 
its  gloom. 
Twas   Christmas   Eve,    and    in   despondent   weary 
mood, 
I  left  the  quiet  room, 


To  seek  for  sympathy 

Where    Nature,  too,  I   thought   must   mourn   her 
fate. 
But  lo !    a  moon  of  rarest  brilliance,  splendidly 

The  time  did  celebrate. 


A   VISION.  83 

As  first  I  saw  her  face 

Fair  shining  in  this  far-off  mountain-pass, 
I  wondered,  "Can  it  be  in  such  deserted  place 

She  soeaks  as  to  the  mass ! " 


Even  so  —  and  so  I  stood 

And  hearkened  unto  what  she  had  to  say : 
The  message  that  was  silvery  spoken,  through  the 
wood, 

And  on  earth's  tablet  lay. 


It  said  :     "  Be  still,  and  know 

There  is  no  lonely  place  in  God's  great  world  — 
None  lonely  where  His  smile  shines  thus  upon  the 
snow, 

Lighting  the  scroll  unfurled." 


And  in  full  accents,  clear  — 

Clearer  than  any  I  had  heard  before : 

"  Behold,  the  radiance  of  love  is  here  —  even  here 
God's  benison  flows  o'er." 


84  A  VISION. 

Then  chimed  the  stars  to  tell 

That  not  the  city's  pomp  of  Christmas  cheer, 
With  peal  of  merry  voice  and  gala-sounding  bell, 

To  Him  could  be  more  dear 


Than  one  heart's  lonely  praise ; 

And  that  He  sends  His  heavenly  choir  to  be 
Witness  of  love  to   all  —  to  those  on  desert  ways ; 

To  those  on  shore  and  sea. 


Xo  more  my  eyes  could  read. 

A  film  of  joy  had  risen  from  my  heart, 
I  think,  to  blind  them ;  or  the  lack  of  further  need, 

Had  bade  the  words  depart. 


The  rest  I  only  felt 

While    standing    near    to    heaven    that    glorious 
night ! 
So  near,  so  near  it  seemed,  the  mem'ry  since  has 
dwelt 
A  vision  of  delight. 


THE  BREATH  OF  GOD.  85 

And  now  I  know  full  well, 

Though  mirth  and  song  of  festive  days  be  mine, 
A  higher,  purer  joy  in  loneliest  lives  may  dwell, 

Such  blessing  to  outshine  : 

That  heaviest  crosses  hide 

Divinest  garlands,  which  Love's  fingers  weave  ; 
That  'tis  a  chosen  part,  with  His  poor  to  abide, 

Of  Christ  on  Christmas  Eve. 


THE    BREATH    OF    GOD. 


T  cometh  from  the  East  —  the  wintry  plain 
Softens  beneath  the  tender  touch  of  rain. 

It  cometh  from  the  West,  and  hoary  vines 
Pour  out  of  rounded  cups  the  richest  wines. 

It  cometh  from  the  North,  and  finest  lace 
Is  woven  to  cover  Nature's  sweet,  old  face. 

It  cometh  from  the  South,  and  all  the  sod 
Blossoming  saith :     "  It  is  the  breath  of  God." 


ARBUTUS    AND    YELLOW 
JESSAMINE. 


AY,  who    shall   hold   in    contrast,    jessamine- 
bells, 

From  Georgia's  sunny  barrens  of  wild  pine, 

With  Maine's  Arbutus  flowering  on  its  vine. 

That  sweet  amid  the  snows  the  spring  foretells  ? 

True,  balm  of  flame  luxuriously  wells 

From  jessamine  censers  overfull  of  wine ; 
Yet  no  less  precious  is  the  low-swung  shrine 

That  with  a  blushing  incense  saintlier  swells. 

The  two  but  do  bespeak  how  Nature's  grace 
Varies,  to  meet  the  Sun's,  her  lover's,  moods:  — 
She  lifts,  suffused  with  kindled  warmth,  her  eye 
To  his,  and  bathes  his  radiant  feet  with  floods 
Of  ecstasy. 

Not  less,  in  cloistered  peace 
Kneels  prone  to  him,  her  god  to  magnify. 

86 


THE    CHOICE. 


RT'S  worthy  worshiper  is  strong 
To  hold  his  mistress  by  the  hand, 


And,  deaf  to  every  siren-song 
To  heed  her  least  command. 

Another,  gifted  by  the  gods, 

And  thrilling  to  Art's  touch  as  he, 

Is  swept  adown  life's  rushing  floods 
Wooed  by  Love's  melody. 

Ah,  two  absorbing  mistresses 

No  mortal  heart  may  duly  serve : 

The  jealous  goddess  fails  to  bless 
A  choice  that  dares  to  swerve. 

And  yet,  and  yet,  Art's  hand  is  cold 
To  this  so  warm  I  clasp  in  mine  — 

Come,  let  her  count  one  less  in  fold, 
And  count  thou  me,  beloved,  thine ! 
87 


OVERDUE 


HE  beads  from  the  wine  have  all  vanished, 
Which  bubbled  in  brightness  so  late ; 


The  lights  from  the  windows  are  banished ; 

Close  shut  is  the  gate, 
That  yesterday  swung  wide  in  joyance, 

And  beckoned  to  fate. 

The  goblet  stands  idle,  untasted, 

Or,  tasted,  is  tasteless  tonight ; 
The  breath  of  the  roses  is  wasted  ; 

In  sackcloth  bedight 
The  soul,  in  the  dusk  of  her  palace 

Sits  waiting  the  light. 

Ah,  why  do  the  ships  waft  no  token 
Of  grace  to  this  sorrowful  realm  ? 

Must  suns  shine  in  vain,  while,  their  broken 
Rays,  clouds  overwhelm  ? 

Sturdy  Breeze,  if  some  sail  bear  a  message, 
Sway  thou  at  the  helm ! 


THE   CRICKET'S    MISSION-.  89 

But  if  haply  the  ruler  be  coming, 

Drug  the  sea-sirens  each  with  a  kiss ; 

Stroke  the  waves  into  calmest  of  humming 
Over  ocean's  abyss: 

Speed  him  soft  from  the  shore  of  the  stranger 
To  the  haven  of  this. 

Then  the  soul-bells  in  joyous  revival 

Shall  peal  all  the  carols  of  spring; 
The  roses  and  ruby  wine  rival 

Each  other  to  bring, 
In  the  crimson  and  fragrance  of  welcome, 

Delight  to  the  king. 


THE    CRICKET'S    MISSION. 


HAT  are  you  singing  from  sun  to  sun, 
Cricket,  the  long  hours  through  ? 
Are  you  telling  of  what  the  earth  has  done, 
Or,  of  what  it  has  yet  to  do  ? 


90  THE   CRICKET'S   MISSION. 

The  rhythm  of  all  that  you  drone  about 
Is  a  melody  vague,  yet  dear  — 

So  dear  that  the  summer  were  dull  without 
Your  answering  presence  here. 

A  tenderer  tint  the  green  leaves  wear, 

The  silence  is  hushed  anew, 
And  a  softer  motion  is  in  the  air, 

Because  they  are  thrilled  by  you. 

Again  I  listen,  and  still  again, 

To  your  monotone's  boundless  store, 

In  hope  to  catch  from  the  low  refrain 
Some  secret  of  hidden  lore ; 

For,  truly,  it  seems  you  know  it  all, 

Who  never  are  loth  to  tell, 
From  early  spring  to  the  latest  fall, 

Whatever  you've  learned  so  well. 

And  yet,  O  cricket !    'twere  wise  to  think 
That  your  burden  from  sun  to  sun, 

Would  fail  of  a  chann  could  we  unlink 
Its  mysteries  one  by  one. 


WAITING.  91 

Enough !   enough,  on  the  restful  swell 
Of  your  weird  notes  low  and  long, 

To  yield  one's  soul  to  the  soothing  spell 
Of  dreams  that  are  nursed  by  song. 

Enough !   enough,  for  our  comfort  here, 

That  life,  like  your  occult  strain, 
Is  an  unlearned  tongue  whose  accents  clear 

We  hearken,  too,  all  in  vain. 


WAITING. 


|ESTERDAY'S  cup  was  brimming 
To  its  curving  rim  with  hope  : 
As  flowers  to  the  bee  awaken 

So  did  the  glad  hours  ope 
With  songs  of  the  heart's  soft  humming, 

Full  of  a  deep  delight, 
As  it  crooned  over  happiness  coming  — 
The  joy  that  should  come  with  night - 
But,  it  blossomed  not  with  the  night ; 


92  WAITING. 

And  mute  is  the  morn  with  waiting; 

Faint  fall  the  bee's  light  wings, 
And  lower  is  now  the  humming 

Of  the  murmuring  song  she  sings. 
The  passionate  prince  of  the  garden 

In  the  pride  of  his  purple  may  woo, 
But  the  queen  knows  where  is  the  nectar, 

And  she  turns,  sweet  heart,  to  you  — 

She  waits  for  ambrosia  and  you !  — 

Waits  for  the  honeyed  blooming 

Of  the  sweetest  blossom  of  all. 
Will  it  open  its  fragrant  petals 

And  answer  her  earnest  call  ? 
Will  you  come  as  the  shadows  lengthen, 

Till  they  fade  in  the  far  away  light, 
And  fill  the  cup  of  tomorrow 

With  the  dews  of  a  glad  tonight? 

Will  you  come,  dear  heart,  tonight? 


THE     USE 


HAT'S  the  use,  love,  to  look  for  your  coming 
As  bees  to  the  opening  flowers  — 


Forever  in  busy  rounds  humming 
Of  the  joy  hid  in  tropical  hours  ? 
The  honey  to  hive  in  sweet  hours. 


What's  the  use,  when  delight  is  as  fleeting 
As  the  laugh  of  waves  kissed  by  the  keel 

Of  the  ship  which  moves  onward,  unweeting 
Of  sorrow  sure  parting  must  seal  ? 
Ah,  time  bears  a  pitiless  seal ! 


"What  use,"  does  my  soul  keep  a-sighing? 

Of  what  use  then  the  birds  and  the  flowers 
Bringing  summer  on  pinions  a-flving  — 

Yet  with  summer  joy  filling  the  hours  ? 

Just  this  use,  love,  to  gladden  the  hours. 

93 


PICTURED    AUTUMN    LEAVES. 


AY  autumn  leaves !  we  have  seen  you  blending 
Your  irised  pennons  in  shadowy  vale, 
And  gather  new  glory  upward  wending, 
In  the  savage  north  wind's  trail, 
From  the  mountain's  base 
To  its  crested  space, 
Where  burning  hues  prevail. 


O,  green  and  yellow  and  crimson  and  gold, 
Out  of  the  loom  of  the  Infinite  rolled, 
In  wild  luxuriance,  fold  upon  fold, 

We  drop  you  a  tear  in  wonder 
That  the  wind,  the  wind  which  is  bleak  and  bold, 
Your  blushes  should  deepen,  your  life  infold, 
Till  chilled  to  the  heart  by  a  love  so  cold, 
You  shrivel  and  die  in  russet  mould, 

And  are  buried  the  deep  snows  under! 


PICTURED   AUTUMN    LEAVES.  95 

Sad  autumn  leaves !     Can  we  wake  rejoicing 
In  loveliness  doomed  of  its  birth  to  pale  ? 
Can  we  echo  the  melody  of  your  voicing, 
Not  moved  by  its  latent  wail 
That  sighs  for  aye, 
Through  the  bright  array 
Grim  Death  must  countervail  ? 


Yet,  crimson  and  gold  and  yellow  and  green, 
Hush  your  low  murmurs,  for  I  have  seen 
A  power  that  is  subtle  and  strong  and  keen 

To  bear  you  across  time's  river  — 
Where  ashen  garments  never  demean 
The  radiant  form  of  autumn's  queen, 
But  en  through  the  ages  in  aureate  sheen, 
Bating  no  jot  of  her  royal  mien, 

She  gorgeously  glows  forever. 


Glad  autumn  leaves !    this  benison  lingers 

(Lifting  you  over  life's  wintry  wave) 
In  the  heaven-born  touch  of   the  artist's  fingers, 


96  PICTURED    AUTUMN    LEAVES. 

Whose  passionate  soul  can  save  — 

By  the  wondrous  skill 

Of  a  master's  will  — 
Fair  forms  from  a  waiting  grave. 


So,  green  and  yellow  and  crimson  and  gold, 
Your  emerald,  topaz  and  ruby  unfold  — 
Dreading  no  robber-king,  withered  and  old, 

Shall  bid  you  your  grace  surrender! 
Nay  —  flame,  that  the  wind  in  his  might  would  hold 
As  you  joyously  spread  over  wood  and  wold 
In  diaphanous  haze  of  a  wealth  untold  — 
Blaze  on  in  your  beauty  by  naught  controlled, 

For  art's  seal  is  set  on  your  splendor  ! 


THE     PERFECT    HEART 
"as  gold  is  tried  by  fire" 


ljFgtfglRIGHT,  shining  ore  there  is  in  Nature's  hold, 
JJiJI  Starring  the  great  dome's  tessellated  floor; 

But  fretted  so  with  blemish  through  and  o'er, 
And  bedded  deeply  in  earth's  jealous  fold, 
That  bravest  instruments  in  hands  most  bold, 
And  fires  that  redden  hotly  more  and  more, 
Must  wrench  and  purify  the  precious  store 
Ere  calmly  floats  a  lake  of  flawless  gold. 


Oh !    she  was  beautiful :    a  counterpart 

Of  shining  gold,  veined  too  with  veins  of  dross ; 

Yet  did  it  seem  an  all  too  cruel  art 

Which  crushed  her  pride  beneath  a  leaden  cross, 
And  melted  all  her  splendor  in  the  loss 

For  gain :  such  peerless  gain  —  a  perfect  heart ! 

97 


ASTRAY. 


EWILDERED,  Father,  at  thy  feet 
I  fall  today; 
Seeing  two  paths  —  of  bitter,  sweet  — 

In  parted  way; 
And  weary,  blinded,  sore  distrest, 
I  humbly  pray 
For  thy  behest. 

A  down  this  vista  clusters  fruit 

Tempting  and  bright ; 
Can  it  be  true,  from  branch  and  root 

Spreads  poisonous  blight? 
Father,  the  precious  boon  bestow 

To  heal  my  sight 

That  I  may  know !  * 

Across,  a  bleak  road  stretches  far, 

In  cold,  gray  air, 
Wherein  I  see  not  one  bright  star 

To  make  it  fair  — 
98 


ASTRAY.  99 


O,  tell  me,  is  the  narrow  way 
Always  so  bare 
Of  golden  ray? 

I  scarcely  dare  to  look  upon 

The  grape-hued  path, 
So  soft  it  smiles  within  the  sun  — 

So  much  it  hath 
Of  joy  to  make  the  other  seem 

Fulfillment  rath 

Of  some  fell  dream. 

Surely  my  feet  were  never  fixed 

Firm,  in  true  way, 
To  hold  me  thus  two  roads  betwixt 

In  dire  dismay : 
In  fear  of  wrong,  in  doubt  of  right, 

Mistrusting  day, 

And  dreading  night. 

Yet,  Father,  if  Thou  wilt  but  guide, 

I  need  not  mourn 
Whatever  sorrow  may  betide. 

The  sharpest  thorn 


THE    CLOISTER. 

Is  not  all  painful,  if  the  while 
The  flesh  is  torn 
I  see  Thy  smile. 

Life's  purpled  vines  must  all  decay  — 

Unblest  or  blest: 
Lead,  Father,  lead  whichever  way 

Thou  seest  best; 
The  longest  way  is  short  that  yields 

Eternal  rest 

In  heavenly  fields. 


THE    CLOISTER. 


O ;   not  an  art-built  cloistered  roof 
Shall  my  poor  soul  ensnare  — 
Such  veils  the  grief,  the  pain,  reproof, 

But  cancels  not  the  care, 
Our  clinging  earth-born  heritage  we  carry  everywhere. 


THE    CLOISTER.  IOI 

To  hide  my  face  within  its  wall, 

To  guard  my  heart  with  stone, 
Seemed  once  a  very  angel-call, 

So  soothing  fell  its  tone, 
And  I  so  tired  and  wandering,  bewildered  and  alone. 


But  He  who  stood  upon  the  mount 

With  Satan,  face  to  face, 
Slaked  not  His  thirst  at  such  a  fount  — 

Sought  not  a  hermit's  place 
To  shield  Him  from  the  weariness  of  mingling  with 
his  race. 


The  feast  with  tender  heart  He  graced, 
Though  sorrow  chained  his  breast  — 

His  cup  too  bitter  with  the  taste 
Of  mortal  life  for  rest  — 

Outpouring  love  and  joy  as  wine  for  every  thirsting 
guest. 

Like  Him,  O  soul,  thy  hermitage 
Claims  universal  air; 


102  ALONE. 

Like  Him,  O  soul,  thy  pilgrimage 

Must  be  through  faith  and  prayer  — 
Among  the  throbbing  human  hearts  that,  fainting, 
with  thee  fare. 

Like  Him,  O  soul,  thy  weariness 

To  prove  its  rest  must  wait, 
Striving  each  wearier  one  to  bless 

Ere,  thou,  at  heaven's  gate, 
Shalt  find  thy  cloistered-roof,  and  be  no  more  dis- 
consolate. 


ALONE. 


LONE !     He  trod  the  wine-press  all  alone  ! 
Mark  —  feet  and  limbs  disrobed  to  nakedness 
Of  them  who  tread  the  pulpy  grape  to  press 
The  juices  out,  and  bid  them  reddening  run: 
The  burden  brook  they  of  a  mid-day  sun; 
And  He,  with  not  one  equal  hand  to  bless, 
So  bore  unhelped  of  man  his  labor's  stress, 
As  one  who  dared  not  leave  the  work  undone. 


EASTER-HYMN.  103 

Alone!     And  we,  alone,  must  tread  our  way  — 
No  rest  for  us  in  any  comrade's  hand : 

Alone,  unconscious,  do  we  reach  life's  day; 
Alone,  at  night  we  near  the  unknown  land; 

On  some  dear  breast  an  aching  heart  we  lay, 
Alone  still!     None  but  God  can  understand. 


EASTER-HYMN. 


"Christ,  our  Passover,  is  sacrificed  for  us;  therefore  let  us 
keep  the  feast." 


ARK !   the  Easter  bells  are  ringing ; 

Hark!    the  morning-stars  are  singing, 
While  a  lowly  incense  swinging 

Rises  to  the  light. 
Earth  is  votive  tribute  pouring, 
By  sweet  fragrance  of  deep  storing 
Bursting  from  her  heart  adoring, 
At  the  close  of  night. 


io4  EASTER-HYMN. 

O'er  high  arch  of  faith  supernal, 
In  communion  eternal, 
Loving  souls  forever  vernal, 

Wander  to  and  fro : 
Souls  which  have  of  sin  been  shriven; 
Souls  whose  fetters  have  been  riven 
By  the  grace  their  Lord  has  given, 

Through  his  patient  woe. 


These  have  seen,  beyond  the  seeming, 
Heaven  a  fact;    and  earth  but  dreaming 
All  of  earth  that  is  not  gleaming 

With  the  perfect  day. 
Breathe  they  ever  of  love's  roses, 
While  with  John  each  head  reposes 
On  the  breast  that  all  encloses 

Of  their  tempted  way. 


Little  recks  love  of  the  platter 
So  the  feast  be  there.     What  matter 
Gold  or  earthen  ?    Rose  in  attar 
Perfumes  common  clay. 


EASTER-HYMN. 

Prize  we  most  the  diamond's  setting 
Or  the  diamond  —  still  forgetting 
Whether  gold  or  silver  fretting 
Holds  the  jewelled  ray? 

Thus,  of  precious  store  partaking, 
Narrow  hope  and  fear  forsaking, 
To  our  souls'  eternal  making 

At  Love's  board  we'll  stay. 
Hindering  bars  for  us  are  broken ; 
Silent  words  to  us  are  spoken  ; 
Lo!    our  faith's  transcendent  token  — 

Christ  is  risen  today  ! 


105 


MARS, 


|ARLIKE  Mars  in  winter's  praise   blows  his 

bugle  shrilly; 
Yet    the    sweet    South    he    betrays    in    a    moment 

stilly  — 
Wooing  her  from  solitudes  of  her  woodland  mazes, 
To    believe    in    softened    moods    of    his    protean 

phases. 


Trustful,  scarcely  has  she  sent  fragrance  on  a  mild 

wind, 
Than  with  treacherous  intent,  swoops  a  cruel  wild 

wind, 
Stark  beset  with  bristling  swords  —  envious  of  her 

savors  — 
Bearing  down  with  savage  hordes,  to  o'ercome  her 

favors. 

106 


MARS.  107 

Tremulous  with  fear  of  death,  now  creep  slow  the 

breezes 
Of    the   sweet   south-land,   whose    breath   hill   and 

dingle  pleases  — 
Touching    day    to    fuller    day,    narrowing    night's 

abysses, 
Yet  in  sadness  driven  away:   frowns  bestowed  for 

kisses. 


Not  for  Mars  the  fruits  of  love,  kindness  wins  for 
crowning ; 

Shiv'ring  tree-tops  rather  prove  how  unblest  his 
frowning ! 

Tender  green  with  sweetest  songs  that  the  song- 
birds sing  us, 

And  the  bloom  to  them  belongs,  peacefuler  gods 
shall  bring  us  : 


Peacefuler  gods  who  fill  our  hands  with  the  dewy 
sweetness 

Of  the  overflowing  lands,  in  the  spring's  complete- 
ness— 


108  THE    RED    PLANET. 

Gods  whose   more   benignant   sway  shall   the   ruin 

cover 
Of    the   wild   and   lawless   way   of    this   changeful 

lover. 


THE    RED    PLANET 


[|*^p]RE  science  looked  with  an  unwearied  glance 
IHJ^ral  Into  the  very  souls  of  distant  stars, 

And  pondered  faithfully  the  face  of  Mars, 
We  placed  within  the  planet's  hand  a  lance, 
A  shield  upon  his  breast  —  and  in  our  trance 

Of  ignorance,  we  made  his  rust-hued  bars 

A  pretext  to  devote  to  him  the  scars 
And  mantling  honors  of  blood-red  mischance 
And  loyalty  of  battle.     Then,  akin 

To   wildest   winds   we   deemed    his    moods    and 
brought 

The    spring's   first   month   to   him  for   chrism  — 
and  wrought 


"I    FEAR    ONLY    THOSE    I    LOVE."  109 

Their  names  almost  in  one. 

Oh,  had  we  seen 
As  now  we  see  that  poor,  half-frozen  star, 
It  still  had  symbolled  March,  but  never  War! 


"I    FEAR    ONLY    THOSE    I    LOVE. 


IE  ne  crams  que  ceux  que  faime: 
So  a  noble  knight  went  singim 
Through  the  mediaeval  woods  — 

Fearful  not  of  war-cry  ringing 
Nor  the  raging  of  the  floods  : 

High  emprise  was  all  his  care, 
Winning  tender  love's  acclaim ; 

So  he  carolled,  debonair, 
Daring  all  for  love  and  fame, 
jfe  ne  crams  que  ceux  que  faime. 


"I    FEAR    ONLY    THOSE    I    LOVE." 
II. 

Je  ne  crains  que  ceux  que  faime, 

Warbled  low  a  lovely  maiden, 
Leaning  in  a  rustic  bower 

Shadowed  with  its  bloom  o'erladen 
Thus  she  sang  and  soothed  the  hour 

Waiting  for  her  love  to  come  — 
Him  she  could  not  safely  name 

In  the  rigor  of  her  home  — 
Sang  full  low,  but  clear  the  same  : 
Je  ne  crains  que  ceux  que  faime. 

III. 

jfe  ne  crains  que  ceux  que  faime, 

O'er  his  missal  mused  a  friar: 
"Flesh  nor  devil  do  I  fear; 

Tis  the  rose  and  not  the  brier 
That  can  stir  a  truant  tear. 

I  can  brook  the  brier's  sting, 
Not  the  rose's  fading  flame. 

Lord,  to  thee  alone  I  bring 
Trembling  hope  and  trembling  aim  : 
Je  ne  crains  que  ceux  que  faime" 


A    SPRING    IDYL.  Ill 


IV. 


ye  ne  era  ins  que  eeux  que  faime: 

Such  the  voice's  hush  is  saying 
Of  strong  hearts  that  pulse  to  prove, 

Mid  their  singing  and  their  praying, 
Nought  is  worthy  fear  but  love. 

Nought  in  life  and  nought  in  death 
Puts  the  gallant  soul  to  shame, 

Sealing  with  unconscious  breath 
This,  the  creed  its  deeds  proclaim  : 
ye  ne  crams  que  eeux  que  faime. 


A    SPRING    IDYL. 


HE  dusky  shadows  of  the  night  are  flying, 
(The  weary  winter  dies) 


And  in  the  east  the  ashen  void  supplying, 
Dawn's  tinted  clouds  arise. 


112  A   SPRING    IDYL. 

From  dreams  of  summer  on  these  fleecy  pillows 

In  rosy  raiment"  dight, 
Fair  spirits  float  upon  the  misty  billows, 

And  bring  us  new  delight : 

This  new  delight  is  Spring's  delicious  presence  ! 

She  charms  the  enamored  air 
With  kisses  warm,  and  breath  of  savory  essence, 

And  amber-floating  hair. 

She  bears  to  earth  a  benison  from  heaven, 

As  though,  through  slumber  deep, 
Her  soul  had  strayed  there,  while  the  snows  have 
striven 

To  hold  her  in  her  sleep. 

She  greets  the  woodland  —  under  her  alighting 

The  cradled  violet  grows ; 
And  even  the  city's  stifled  love  requiting, 

O'er  it  her  spell  she  throws ; 

In  hyacinthine  showers  of  honied  sweetness, 

And  tender  primrose  bloom, 
That  bring  fair  nature  in  her   bright  completeness 

To  many  a  shaded  room. 


A   SPRING   IDYL.  I 

Before  gay  palaces  she  lightly  passes, 

Yet,  lingers  too,  to  bless 
And  gem  with  emeralds  the  petted  grasses 

Waking  at  her  caress. 

She  scatters  blessing  and  the  while  she  blesses 

Outpouring  all  her  store 
Her  open  wealth  by  miracle  increases, 

Expanding  more  and  more ; 

Till  town  and  meadow,  forest,  hill  and  river, 

Enriched  by  her  largesse, 
Give  back  in  grateful  tribute  to  the  giver 

A  world  of  loveliness. 

No  more  we  sigh  that  winter's  pallid  ringer 

So  long  earth's  garden  sealed: 
Not  on  past  care,  methinks,  do  angels  linger 

With  paradise  revealed ! 

Unless  to  note  that  the  divinest  pleasure, 

Within  its  central  height, 
Bears  sure  and  clear  proportion  to  the  measure 

Of  life's  once  weary  night. 


IN    SHADOW. 

J.    R.    T. 


BOW  can  you  carol  so  o'erhead. 

You  gladsome  birds  on  wanton  wing  ? 


Ah.  me  !    you  know  nor  he  is  dead : 

You  only  know  the  joy  of  spring — 
You  cannot  know  what  wealth  is  gone. 
And  so  you  careless  carol  on. 

God  bids  you.  as  he  bids  the  bloom 
Of  brightest  blossoms  tint  the  air: 

He  $?£$  beyond  the  shaded  room. 
Beyond  the  blank  of  our  des; 

He  sees  the  glory  struggling  through 

The  clouds  that  dim  our  finite  view. 

"Were  it  not  so.  I  think  the  sun 

From  cheerful  shining  would  refrain. 

Grieved  that  the  earth  he  smiles  upon 
Groans  ever  wirh  new  rravail  pain. 


IX    SHADOW.  115 

But  joy  is  hid  within  the  ground 
That  greater  joy  may  more  abouncL 

So,  sing  your  songs  ye  songsters  gay, 

And,  flowers,  your  honied  sweetness  pour! 

Our  poet  in  the  ground  we  lay 
Only  that  he  may  live  the  more  — 

Perhaps  his  influence  sweet  extend 

More  friendful  to  each  loving  friend. 

Yet  still  we  grieve  with  unchecked  tears, 

It  is  so  hard  by  faith  to  stand, 
ile  through  the  vista  of  the  years 

We  blindly  grope  to  touch  his  hand: 
A  hand  that  served  a  master-brain — 
A  hand  love  never  sought  in  vain. 

Great  Love  1    look  down  and  make  amends 
For  all  the  light  from  us  withdrawn; 

Look  down  upon  his  sorrowing  friends 
And  give  us  glimpses  of  the  dawn 

That  breaks  upon  his  quickened  sight, 

While  we  stand  shrouded  in  the  night 


IN    HOLLYWOOD    CEMETERY 
[the  same.] 


ARRARA'S  stainless  finger  never  lent 
Its  taper  length  to  mark  a  purer  fame, 
Than  his  whose  earnest  life  was  votive  flame 
Upon  the  altar  of  rare  culture  spent. 

Yet  vain  the  labor  that  Carrara  bent, 

Through  years  of  crystal  growth,  to  match  a  name 
Of  so  clear  memory ;  it  needs  must  shame 

The  white  of  any  earth-born  monument. 

Far  truer  tribute  than  outgleameth  here 
Is  ruby-shrined  in  many  a  loving  heart, 

Whose  thought  mounts  up  in  sympathy  sincere 
Beyond  the  marble  reach  of  sculptured  art, 

With  thanks  to  God,  who  gave  in  one  so  dear 
The  saint's  and  sage's  gentle  counterpart. 

116 


A    STRING    OF    BEADS. 


THE    YEAR'S    ROSARY. 

DREAMED  a  pleasant  dream  one    summer 
day, 

Strolling  the  milk-white  sea-sands  musingly, 
When  each  clear  wave  an  emerald  seemed  to  be 
Of  some  rare  necklace,  gold-set  to  array 
The  ample  bosom  where  it  shining  lay. 

Scarce    knew    I   which   outflashed   with    heaven 

more  free, 
The  splendid  beauty  of  the  berylline  sea, 
Or  earth's  warm   breast,  bright  with   the   jewelled 
spray. 

Thus  loitering,  before  me  quaintly  rose 
A  vision  of  the  Year,  in  human  guise  : 
A  gracious  woman  with  soft  lidded  eyes, 

Holding  twelve  opals,  threaded  rosary-wise ; 

And  by  them  telling  what  such  gems  disclose  — 
The  ever  varying  life  they  symbolize. 
ii7 


Il8  A    STRING    OF    BEADS. 


FIRST     BEAD. 


The  Weavers  —  January. 


ELL  us,  O  Janus,  whom  with  dual  face 
The  ancients  imaged,  as  if  thus  to  see 
Before,  behind  thee,  tell  us  if  there  be 
Watch-fires  of  any  kind  informed  with  grace 
To  melt  the  mists  of  doubt  that  interlace 
And  dim  our  straining  vision? 

We  would  free 
The  weaving  of  the  new  year's  tapestry 
From  unknown  errors,  and  from  every  trace 
Of  known  defection. 

But,  alas !   our  light 
Falls  only  on  the  pattern,  while  the  thread  — 
As  though  by  Gobelin  weavers  swiftly  led, 
Shifting  in  color,  shaded  now,  now  bright  — 
Reveals  no  purpose  till  the  work  is  done, 
And  on  the  picture  shines  a  rounded  sun. 


A    STRING   OF    BEADS.  119 


SECOND     BEAD. 


Valentine's  Day  —  February. 


JAN,  wind-wracked  month,  of   all   the  months 
most  bare 

Of  outward  beauty  or  of  inward  grace ; 
Reserved  of  ancient  custom  to  efface 

By  sacrificial  offering,  whate'er 

Of  taint  was  held  to  be  the  whole  year's  share  — 
One  day,  at  least,  thy  cold,  gray  arms  embrace, 
That  serves  to  set  a  dimple  in  thy  face 

And  by  its  fairness  make  the  rest  more  fair : 

The  happy  day  when  birds  begin  to  woo 
And  win  fond  mates,  to  bless  the  tiny  nest, 
Already  modeled  in  the  tinier  breast; 

The  happy  day  in  which,  sweet-heart,  for  you, 
A  rosier  tint  o'erspreads  this  breast  of  mine, 
Sending  its  message  through  Saint  Valentine. 


120  A    STRING   OF    BEADS. 


THIRD     BEAD 


Promise  —  March. 


jEADY  is  time  beneath  her  brooding  wing, 
To    break,    with    jubilant    life,    the    brown 
earth's  sheath; 
And  fondly  do  we  watch  th'  expectant  heath 
For  bloom  and  song  the  days  are  ripe  to  bring. 

Impatient  heralds  vaunt  the  birth  of  spring, 
While  yet,  alack !    the  winter's  blatant  breath 
Defieth  trust,  and  coldly  shadoweth 

With  drifts  of  gray  each  hope  that  dares  to  sing. 

Yet  still  we  know  —  as  deepest  shades  foretell 
The  coming  of  the  morn ;  and  lovely  sheen 
Of  living  sunshine  lies  asleep  between 

A  frost-bound   crust  and   joys  that  upward  well  — 
Know,  there  is  triumph  for  the  yielding  shell, 
In  ecstacies  of  song  and  matchless  green ! 


A   STRING   OF    BEADS.  121 


FOURTH     BEAD 


Babyhood —  April. 


URSELING  of  Mother  Nature  ! 

Just  because 
Thou  art  a  tender  child  —  whose  ready  tears 
With  readier  smiles,  and  ever-present  fears 

And  transient  hopes,  are  true  unto  the  laws 

That  circle  babyhood  —  affection  draws 
Our  souls  to  note  the  gospel  that  appears 
In  thy  soft  tints,  and  gently  rounding  spheres 

Of  vital  joyousness. 

And  thus  we  pause 

Delighted  with  thy  game  of  hide  and  seek ! 
Roguish  thou  lift'st  a  rumpled  pinafore 
Of  clouds  to  veil  the  quick    returning  store 

Of  dewy  sunshine,  while  bright  colors  speak 
A  conscious  rapture  in  the  peeping  flowers, 

Held  close  as  trophy  of  the  sun  and  showers. 


A    STRING    OF    BEADS. 


FIFTH    BEAD. 


Maidenhood  —  May. 


HE  soul  of  Summer  that  through  April  days 
Lay   unawakened  —  like    an    earth-stayed 
gem 
Fashioned  to  shine  in  some  rare  diadem, 
Yet  which  for  furtherance  of  creative  ways 
Hideth  awhile  the  brightness  of  its  rays  — 

Now  bursts  its  bonds ;    and  stooping  to  the  hem 
Of  gentle  Spring's  soft  draperies,  kisses  them 
To  answering  beauty. 

Not  for  larger  praise 
Did  Aphrodite,  with  her  golden  hair 

And  sapphire  eyes  of  heaven's  reflected  sheen, 
Rise  fresh  and  radiant  from  the  tender  green 
Of  crested  waves  —  though  marvelously  fair  — 
Than  girt  with  smiles  which  all  the  air  illume 
Sweet  May  floats  in  on  foam  of  apple-bloom. 


A    STRING    OF    BEADS.  1 23 


SIXTH    BEAD. 
Motherhood  —  June. 

0    more    in    freshest    bloom    of    Spring    she 
stands, 


Timid,  with  hooded  eyes  and  unbound  hair, 
Hark'ning  on  eager  soil  a  voice  which  there 
Breathes  sweet  annunciation ! 

Patient  hands 
Treasured  the  lily. 

Still,  the    strange  commands 
Made  tremulous  the  maiden's  heart  with  care. 

No!  not  with  lowly  fear  that  scarce  may  dare 
Believe  she  holds  the  glory  of  the  lands, 
But,  as  the  radiant  woman  do  we  see 
A  form  superb  within  the  folding  blue, 
And  cherub-faces  smile  the  roses  through ; 
While,  queenly,  from  the  mists  of  morn  set  free, 
Moves  calmly  on  to  golden  heights  of  noon 
The  virgin-mother  —  regal-hearted  June! 


124  A   STRING   OF   BEADS. 


SEVENTH     BEAD. 
Heliotrope  —  July. 

UR    new,    west    world,    the     Persian's     god 
looks  on 

Today  as  in  those  other  days  afar, 
Before  was  felt  the  influence  of  the  Star 
That  waked  a  holier  worship  than  the  Sun. 

Once  in  each  passing  year,  upon  his  throne  — 
Flashing  abroad  a  glittering  scitnetar, 
And  robed  in  robes  of  trailing  cinnabar  — 

He  sits  triumphant,  yielding  sway  to  none. 

Fruits  blushing  crimson  in  his  fervid  glance 
Whose  warmth  has  made   their  happiness    com- 
plete, 
Drop  down  content  to  languish  at  his   feet. 

And  flowers,  no  colder  lover  could  entrance, 
See  in  his  face  the  fullness  of  their  hope, 
And  smile  to  hear  men  call  them  Heliotrope 


A    STRING    OF    BEADS  1 25 


EIGHTH     BEAD. 


Pompions  —  August. 


|N  dreaded  dog-days  fervid  skies  offend; 
As  once  the  flaming  air  filled  with  afright 
Apollo's  horses,  which,  not  reined  aright 
Chafed,  and  with  snorting  nostrils  that  distend, 
Threatened  the  world  with  pyrotechnic  end. 

—  Mayhap  'twas  Sirius's  bark  and  bite 
That  quelled  young  Phaeton's  fatuous  delight, 
And  bade  his  hope  with  fear  of  Tophet  blend ! 

Truly  it  seemeth  so ;  for  these  are  days 
When  sere  the  air  is  with  sirocco-heat : 
The  shrunken  field  lies  parched  beneath  the  feet ; 

The  languid  corn  too  listless  is  for  praise  ; 

Yet,  still,  praise  strikes  a  key-note  brilliant,  bold, 
While  pompions  redden  inco  globes  of  gold. 


126  A    STRING    OF    BEADS. 


NI NTH     BEAD. 
Sabbath  Rest — September} 


OST  holy  of  the  numbers,  sacred  seven! 
—  Which  reverently  the  ancient  sages  held, 
And  by  thy  hidden  charm  the  music  swelled 
Of  rare  old  prophecies  and  songs  of  heaven  — 
We  wonder,  yet  the  secret  have  not  riven 
(So  closely  are  the  mysteries  sentineled) 
If  only  by  the  calendar  compelled, 
Thy  sign  of  grace  unto  this  month  was  given. 

Rather,  we  think,  a  fair  connection  lies 

Between  the  blessedness  of  Sabbath  peace  — 
When  all  of  labor  finds  divine  surcease, 
The  while  rich  incense  rises  to  the  skies  — 

And    that  sweet    rest    from    summer's    burdened 

days 
Which  makes  the  ripe  year  now  yield  seven-fold 
praise. 


1  Formerly  September  was  the  seventh  month. 


A   STRING   OF   BEADS.  1 27 


TENTH     BEAD. 


Royal  Obsequies —  October. 


BRILLIANT  phalanx  fills  the  welkin's  ring, 
Gathered  the  fair  queen's   death   to   cele- 
brate ; 
And  royal  answers  to  the  doom  of  fate, 
Proudly,  long  serried  lines  in  honor  bring. 

A  plaintive  requiem  the  songsters  sing; 
Low,  beating  drums  upon  the  singers  wait ; 
And  scarlet  sashes  and  gay  plumes  vibrate 

With  martial  splendor,  where  the  maples  swing. 

It  is  the  queen's,  fair  Summer's,  exequies, 
Which  grand  October  signals  kingly-wise  : 
Tears    scarce    escape    his    brave    yet    saddened 
eyes; 

Yet,  yielding  tribute,  drinks  he  of  the  lees 
Of  joy,  full  stately  —  smiling  that  o'er  all 
This  blight  of  beauty  drops  so  rich  a  pall. 


128  A    STRING   OF    BEADS. 


ELEVENTH     BEAD 


Aftermath  —  November. 


E  travel  joyously  an  open  path, 

Where  golden-rod  and  purple  asters  glow — 

We  two  together — and  with  clasped  hands  go, 
Not  noting  the  low  sun  that  shadoweth : 
Scarce  note  we  anything  save  what  each  hath 

Of  sympathetic  joy  in  each;  when  lo ! 

A  hillock  parts  us,  and  in  darkness,  slow, 
One  walks  alone. 

Who  talks  of  aftermath?  — 
Of  dreams  like  those  begotten  of  the  haze 

Of  Indian  Summer  —  when  time's  languid  sense 

Is  stirred  by  memory  of  the  life  intense 
Once  lived  with  June  in  her  divinest  days  — 

Dreams  that  but  cheat  the  soul  with  idle  thrall, 
Since  Death,  November,  shivers  through  them  all. 


A   STRING   OF    BEADS.  1 29 


TWELFTH      BEAD. 


Christmas  —  December. 


HITE   month  —  whose    stars    fall    showering 
from  the  skies, 
Turning  to  snowflakes  in  the  frosty  air — - 
We  love  thee,  not  alone  that  thou  art  fair, 

Shining  upon  us  with  innumerous  eyes 

Of  earth  as  heaven ;  since,  too,  under  lies 
A  milky-way  —  holding  within  its  snare 
The  Summer's  Flora,  folded  now  with  care, 

And  brimming  with  new  stars  for  Spring's  surprise  ! 

But,  also  'tis,  that  one  supremest  star  — 

The  star  that  taught  the  shepherds  best  to  sing 
And  by  its  watchful,  holy  ministering, 

Led  unto  truth  the  wise  men  from  afar  — 
Concenters  its  rare  brightness  in  thy  zone, 
And  makes  the  Child-King  ours ;   our  very  own  ! 


DEFENSE  OF  SANTA  CLAUS. 


HO  calleth  me  old?     Heigho  !     Not  so! 
I  am  young  as  the  joy  I  bring; 
And  joy  is  as  fresh  as  the  dawn,  we  know, 
And  as  rosy  and  light  of  wing. 

The  beard  that  so  shaggy  you  think  and  gray, 
Is  but  frosted  with  feathery  snow, 

And  glows,  through  the  sifting,  as  brown  today, 
As  it  did  long  years  ago. 

My  cheek  is  as  red  and  my  eye  as  blue  — 
And  my  steeds  as. merrily  start  — 

As  when  in  the  olden  time  I  knew 
The  way  to  each  little  one's  heart. 

'Tis  almost  two  thousand  years,  I  think, 

Since,  Christendom  all  astir, 
I  tackled  my  team  and  was  off  in  a  wink 

As  the  King's  interpreter. 
130 


DEFENSE  OF  SANTA  CLAUS.  I31 

Some  say  I  am  older  in  years  than  that; 

For  they  read  on  a  heathen  page 
Of  the  world's  great  history,  that  I  sat 

At  the  feast  of  the  "  Golden  Age." 

But  if  it  be  so,  I  have  never  the  time 

To  waste  upon  chronicled  dates; 
'Tis  enough  for  me  that  my  bells  must  chime, 

And  my  sled  on  the  roof-tree  waits. 

The  whole  of  the  year,  from  beginning  to  end, 

I  am  busy  in  filling  my  pack, 
With  the  beautiful  things  that  the  seasons  send 

On  the  wheel  of  the  Zodiac. 

And  whether  or  not  you  call  me  old, 

It  changes  this  truth  no  whit : 
That  love  may  forever  and  aye  unfold, 

Yet  never  grow  old  a  bit. 

Today,  as  in  winters  of  "auld  lang  syne," 

A  wassail  cup  holds  for  me 
The  rollicking  cheer  of  as  red  a  wine ; 

While  under  the  mistletoe  tree, 


132  DEFENSE  OF  SANTA  CLAUS. 

As  damaging  still  is  Cupid's  dart — 

Still  as  sweet  the  dear  one's  lips ; 
And  never  the  Yule-log's  flaming  heart 

Can  the  light  of  my  own  eclipse  ! 

So  do  not  believe  I  am  growing  old  — 

That  I  lag  with  a  listless  gait : 
No!    Santa   Claus  warms   as  the   days  grow  cold; 

And  he  speeds  —  for  the  children  wait. 

Tirra-lirra !    Heigho  !     The  blithesome  bells 
Ring  out  as  the  clouds  they  cleave ; 

And  happiness,  smiling  to  meet  them,  tells 
That  again  it  is  Christmas-Eve. 


BETWEEN    THE    YEARS. 


E  stand  upon  the  bourn,  my  soul  and  I, 
Of    this   year's    sea,  and    mark    great    ships 
make  haste 
To  pass  beyond,  and  charm  the  crystal  waste 
Of  sea  untried ;  and  standing  so,  we  sigh 
To  note  no  ship  of  ours  careering  by, 

Worthily  freighted  and  with  full  sails  graced. 
And  yet  because  the  two  seas  are  embraced 
By  one  wide  arching  span  of  hopeful  sky, 
We  do  not  quite  despair  who  are  so  poor: 
But  climbing  by  our  faith  the  bridge   of  blue, 
We  see  the  chasm  passed  —  we  see  our  feet 
Planted  upon  the  New  Year's  smiling  shore ; 
And  there  innumerable  ships  that  woo 
The  earnest  seeker  to  an  empire  sweet. 
133 


TO    THE    YELLOW    LILY 


[TATELY  yellow  lily, 
In  the  narrow  bound 
Of  a  country  garden, 

Tell  me,  have  you  found 
Answer  to  the  riddle 

Which  we  fain  would  guess 
Placed  however  lowly 
To  find  happiness  ? 


Splendid  yellow  lily, 

Know  you  not  your  worth  ? 
Surely  you  inherit 

Rights  of  royal  birth  : 
Such  brown  lashes,  never 

Fringed  plebeian  eyes  — 
Never  such  high  presence 

Was  a  menial's  guise  : 


TO    THE    YELLOW    LILY.  135 

Never,  never,  fragrance 

So  completely  full, 
Lived  to  mock  beginnings 

Underbred  and  dull ; 
Yet  in  homeliest  garden 

Weed-grown  to  the  knee, 
Open-hearted,  regal, 

You  bloom  goldenly. 


Tell  me,  tell  me  truly, 

Is  it  that  your  faith 
Bids  you  follow  duly, 

What  the  master  saith  ? 
Is  it  that  you've  listened 

To  his  love's  behest  — 
Learning  that  the  places 

Of  his  choice  are  best  ? 


Yes ;  yet  more,  brave  lily, 
Know  I  why  you  shine 

In  the  humblest  garden 
With  a  face  divine  — 


136  MY    BABY. 

Pouring  out  your  sweetness 
Pure  and  rich  and  free  : 

God  is  in  all  nature, 
And  his  face  you  see. 


MY    BABY 


TO    O.    J.    AND    J.    A.    J. 


BABY,  my  baby,  my  darling! 
I     As  I  ponder  my  newly-won  bliss, 
As  I  bask  in  thy  beautiful  being, 

And  kiss  thee  with  kiss  upon  kiss, 
I  marvel  how  earth  ever  charmed  me, 

With  joys  that  I  dreamed  were  divine - 
Joys  now  that  I  measure  as  human, 
Since  this  one  I  know  is  divine  ! 


MY    BABY.  I37 

0  baby,  my  cherub,  my  darling ! 

Whose  "coo"  is  the  sweetest  of  things; 

1  wonder  if  ever  such  music, 

So  perfect,  was  born  without  wings : 
I  tremble  with  rapture  to  listen, 

So  dread  I  the  pinions  —  ah,  me ! 
But  no!    the  good  God  is  no  mocker  — 

He  gave  thee,  sweet  baby,  to  me. 


O  baby,  my  queen  and  my  darling, 

Thou  rulest  and  liftest  me  so, 
Exalting  my  soul  to  its  highest, 

God  gave  thee  thy  scepter,  I  know ; 
From  Him,  in  his  uppermost  heavens, 

Thou  earnest  to  us  like  a  star, 
And  the  light  of  thee  leadeth  us  upward 

And  onward  as  leadeth  a  star. 


O  baby,  my  baby,  my  darling ! 

Queen,  cherub  and  star  though  thou  be, 
No  sign  to  express  thee  seems  worthy 

While  thou  art  all  sweetness  to  me  ! 


$8  YES    OR    NO? 

In  thy  voice  is  the  song  of  the  morning; 

In  thy  fingers  is  touch  of  delight ; 
In  thy  smile  is  the  beauty  of  sunshine ; 

In  thyself  —  oh,  thyself  is   delight! 

Dear  baby,  my  baby,  my  darling! 

Love,  love  is  incarnate  at  last  — 
The  love  that  was  thrilled  into  promise, 

The  love  that  grew  strong  as  it  passed 
Into  blossom  so  mystic  and  holy  — 

We  give  it  the  sweet  name  of  child — 
Two  beings  in  one  made   completer: 

A  baby  —  our  darling,  our  child  ! 


YES    OR    NO? 

AFTER    A    PICTURE    OF    MILLAIS. 


AY,  shall  it  be  Yes?     O  tell  me,  Sun, 
Ere  you  sink  in  the  west  so  low  — 
You  never  are  troubled  with  doubts,  not  one 
Sav,  shall  it  be  Yes  or  No? 


YES    OR    NO?  139 

The  Sun  goes  down  to  his  resting  place, 

And  the  Stars  their  faces  show : 
O  Stars,  that  glorify  all  the  space, 

Pray,  shall  it  be  Yes  or  No  ? 

But  Stars  have  no  sympathy,  none  at  all, 

A-cold  in  their  far-off  glow, 
And  they  only  mock  at  me  when  I  call, 

"  Shall  I  answer  him  Yes  or  No  ? " 

Not  even  a  bird  on  his  homeward  wing 

Will  a  comforting  note  bestow, 
And  I  listen  in  vain  for  his  voice  to  sing 

An  echoing  Yes  or  Xo. 

The  bird  has  a  mate  in  the  maple's  nest, 
Who  is  waiting  his  love-song.  .  .  .  Lo! 

There  is  something  astir  in  my  wakened  breast 
That  is  rather  like  Yes  than  No. 

And  as  nowhere  outside  of  yourself,  my  heart, 

Is  the  word  that  will  help  you,  so 
You  shall  look  within  for  the  tender  art 

To  answer  him  Yes  or  No. 


LOVE'S    AFTERNOON:    A    SONG 


AY,  nay,  you  need  not  speak,  love, 
Of  graces  that  have  flown  : 
'Twere  vain   I  think  to  seek,  love, 

For  more  than  now  you  own. 

You  say  your  glance  was  brighter 

In  the  hopeful  days  of  spring — 

That  your  weary  step  was  lighter 

Ere  the  early  bird  took  wing. 


It  may  be,  love,  it  may  be, 

But  we  do  not  waste  a  tear 
On  wood-violets,  when  the  ruby 

Of  the  rich  June  rose  is  near; 
And  richer  than  June  roses 

Is  the  golden  harvest-field 
Where  the  later  sun  discloses 

But  a  part  of  what's  concealed. 


love's  afternoon:  a  song.  141 

You  tell  me  you  were  fairer 

In  the  days  from  trouble  free, 
What  time  sad  lines  were  rarer 

On  your  thoughtful  face  to  see  ; 
That  your  lip  knew  quicker  thrilling 

To  the  soft  breath  of  the  south, 
When  with  dawn's  sweet  music  trilling 

It  laid  tribute  on  your  mouth. 


Well,  grant  it  be  the  truth,  love, 

That  fondness  makes  me  blind, 
While  I  question  if  your  youth,  love, 

Showed  charms  I  fail  to  find. 
Yet,  never  did  the  morning, 

In  all  its  roseate  pride, 
Wear  half  the  bright  adorning 

Of  the  glorious  sunset-tide. 


You    say  the  rarest  juices 

Of  your  heart  have  all  been  spilled : 
By  its  lees  then  for  life's  uses 

Is  my  own  supremely  filled. 


142  LOVE    AMONG   THE    GRAVES. 

What  if  purple  bloom  and  yellow 
Have  gone  out  in  wasted  wine  — 

Still,  we  know  the  fruit  most  mellow 
Is  the  longest  on  the  vine  ! 


LOVE    AMONG    THE    GRAVES 


YVENTY  years  ago,  in  gladsome  weather, 
In  this  silent  city's  woodland  bound, 
Love  and  I  with  buoyant  step  together, 

Careless  wandered  round  — 
Wandered  round   and   through   the  winding  alleys, 

Brave  with  arbor-vitae,  woodbine,  rose, 
Fragrant  on  the  hills  and  in  the  valleys, 
Of  the  sacred  close. 

Little  recked  we  of  the  mystic  meaning 

(Hidden  under  blue  forget-me-nots) 
Of  the  tear-sown  seeds  of  heavenly  gleaning 

In  these  garden  plots  — 


LOVE    AMONG    THE    GRAVES.  1 43 

Little  recked  we  of  diviner  blessing 

Than  our  spring-time  !     Plaintive  sorrow's  face 
Little  moved  us  in  the  fond  caressing 

Of  our  soul's  embrace. 


In  the  quickened  flash  of  answering  glances, 

In  the  tender  touch  of  loving  hands, 
In  the  joyous  pulse  that  gaily  dances 

As  love's  flower  expands  — 
In  our  full  absorption,  could  we  listen 

To  low  minor  tones,  and  we  so  glad  ? 
Something  in  our  eyes  made  tears  to  glisten, 

But  thev  were  not  sad. 


No !  the  fount  of  love's  o'erflowing  treasure 

Is  not  bitter  —  and  our  heart's  relief 
Was  as  bright  dew  merely,  in  the  measure 

Of  the  chaliced  grief 
Which  encompassed  us  in  carven  glory  — 

Here  and  there,  a  simple  myrtle  boss 
Telling  with  more  pathos  the  same  story 

Of  some  aching  loss. 


144  LOVE    AMONG    THE    GRAVES. 

Fair,  a  sculptured  city  rose  before  us  — 

Green,  the  grasses  tricked  the  buried  gloom ; 
After  twenty  years  what  may  restore  us 

That  pervading  bloom  ? 
Now,  the  lifted  shafts  make  level  shadows 

With  the  graves  they  cover  in  their  pride  ; 
All  the  starr\'  wealth  of  the  green  meadows 

Serves  not  Death  to  hide. 


Yet  the  city  stands  today  as  whitely, 

Lifting  myriad  columns  to  the  sun, 
And  the  same  rare  blossoms  smile  as  brightly 

Fragrant,  every  one  : 
But  our  lives  are  shadowed  by  their  losses ; 

Earthly  treasure  shows  its  taint  of  rust ; 
And  not  vain  the  storied  stone  embosses 

Its  imprisoned  dust. 


Now,  the  shrouded  meaning  helps  to  hold  us 
Not  alone  the  beauty  overlaid  — 

As  maturer  influences  fold  us, 
Mingling  shine  and  shade. 


RETRIEVAL.  I45 

Now,  no  more  as  once  in  sunny  weather, 
Twenty  years  ago  among  the  sweets, 

Could  unmindful  Love  and  I  together 
Tread  these  wooded  streets  ! 


RETRIEVAL. 


KNOW  a  life  whose  dawn  was  heralded 
By  just  such  rosy  smile  and  golden  gift 


As  upland  summits  to  the  day-god  lift, 
When  orient  messages  fly  overhead, 
And  flushed  is  all  below  with  liquid  red. 

And,    like   the    swelling    hours   when    o'er   them 

swift 
Forecasting  clouds  are  made  to  drift, 
Was  this  life's  noon  with  shadow  overspread:  — 


146  IN    EGYPT. 

About  its  patient  wall  of  effort  lay 

A    pallid    mist,    through    which    no    eye    could 
peer; 
And  none   could   think  but  that  the   close   of  day 

Would  find  it  still  devoid  of  any  cheer : 
Behold,  athwart  the  heavens  a  rubied  ray! 

Now,  hill  and  vale  transfused  with  joy  appear. 


IN    EGYPT 
1. 


"  Tell  mc,  O  Charmian,  if  ever  I 

Laved  Cczsar  so  ?  " 

S  well  assert  there  be 
Of  spring-time  blossoms  such  as  royally 
Lift  conscious  heads  with  summer's  bloom  to  vie, 
As  thus  the  earlier  bond  to  magnify ! 

The  dawning  fragrance  of  that  love's  degree 
To  this,   I  bear  the  peerless  Antony, 


IN    EGYPT.  147 

Was  as  the  primrose-scent  when  musk  is  nigh ; 
Or,  as  the  pallid  sheen  of  yon  pure  pearl, 

To  this  rare  diamond's  iridescent  gleam ; 
Or,  play  of  light  the  glow-worm  may  unfurl, 

To  that  which  breaks   the   heavens   with    lucent 
stream : 
I  tell  thee,  Charmian,  the  chrysalid  girl 

Loved,  but  as  callow  moths  of  plumage  dream ! 

ir. 

Not  seeing  Antony,  I  might  have  died, 

As  I  had  lived,  mate  to  a  kingly  soul ; 

Believing  of  life's  best  the  utmost  whole 
Was  my  full  portion  as  brave  Caesar's  bride  ; 
Might  well  have  deemed  my  passion  satisfied, 

Who  shared  with  him  imperial  control 

Of  earthly  grandeur — ignorant  of   a  goal 
Yet  unconceived  by  our  exultant  pride  ! 
But,  seeing  Antony  and  touched  by  fire 

Of  his  free  spirit,  quickening  fire  to  flame, 
All  else  is  ashes  —  while  the  soul's  desire, 

Escaping  in  white  heat  that  puts  to  shame 
Ambition's  grosser  elements,  mounts  higher 

Than   love   called  love  has  ever  made    its   aim. 


148  IN    EGYPT. 

III. 

O  Charmian,  I  never  knew  the  day 

Of  tender  longing  as  the  Coesar's  bride  — 
Of  weary  yearning  parted  from  his  side ! 

Enough  to  cheer  me  then,  and  doubt  gainsay, 

Was  the  blithe  singing  of  some  roundelay, 
Or,  the  inflowing  of  a  perfumed  tide 
Of  luxury  my  kingdom  could  provide, 

Or  any  magic,  fancy  might  essay. 

But  now,  I  court  a  Lethe-folding  sleep  — 
For  song  and  mocking  pageantry  have  lost 

Their   charm    to    charm    me    since    far   Rome    can 
keep 
The  lover  I  would  hold  at  any  cost ; 

Whom  to  bring  back  the  sacrifice  were  cheap 
That  a  world's  men  and  means  should  all   ex- 
haust. 

iv. 

Then,  Charmian,  beware  whom  thou  dost  laud 
As  proudest  winner  in  life's  royal  race  ! 
He  is  most  brave  who  longest  holds  the  grace 

Of  Egypt's  queen  —  and  looms  for  her  a  god 


INCONSISTENCY.  149 

Where  only  mortal  feet  have  erstwhile  trod ; 

Who  rises  to  the  topmost  round  of  place, 

Circled  in  Egypt's  triumphing  embrace  — 
Her  service  swayed  by  his  divinest  nod. 
So,  no  more  vaunting  of  my  vernal  pledge  ! 

I  hate  the  intrusion  of  a  thought  that  bates, 
Though  but  by  dull  comparison,  the  edge 

Of  love's  sweet  trial  in  this  time  that  waits 
Effulgent  with  love's  sun.     'Tis  sacrilege 

To  turn  to  shadows  while  the  noontide  sates. 


INCONSISTENCY. 


IS  strange  how  superstitions  yet  enchain 
A     priest-bewildered     people,    heart     and 
brain"  — 
Said  Harry  to  his  chum  a  trifle  older  — 
"  'Tis  strange,  so  very  strange  !  " 


150  A    LEGEND    OF    FRE1TENBERG. 

Just  then  the  moon 
Threw  softest  radiance  over  Harry's  shoulder : 
—  Clink  went  his  pocket  change. 

"  How  opportune,*' 
He    cried,  "  this    chance    to    see    the    new    moon' 

light 
Propitiously,  while  looking  to  the  right." 


A    LEGEND    OF    FREITENBERG 


IICTURE  a  quaint,  old,  German  town 
Hill  To  panic  stirred, 
By  terrible  word 
That  the  ruthless  French  were  coming  down 
Right  into  the  town  — 
On  their  homeward  way 
From  a  Russian  fray  — 
A  hated  and  dreaded  vandal  herd. 


A    LEGEND    OF    FREITEXBERG.  151 

Quicker  than  flame  from  street  to  street, 

The  dire  news  ran  ; 
While  loaded  wagons  and  hurrying  feet 

Betrayed  a  plan 
For  flight, 
'Ere  night, 

From  homes  that  soon 

'Neath  a  clouded  moon, 
Would  be  stormed  and  plundered ;  and  fired  may  be, 

To  sate  a  bestial  revelry. 


On  a  by-way  off  from  the  leading  sfrasse, 
In  a  house  that  told  of  a  better  day. 

Dwelt  a  comely  lad  and  a  lovely  lass, 

With  their  grandam,  feeble  and  old  and  gray, 


The  maid  had  a  lover  who  pleaded  well 

To  bear  them  all  to  a  safer  place; 
But  the  grandam's  gaze  on  the  hearthstone  fell, 
And  she  softly  said,  with  a  solemn  face  : 
"  My  years  are  old, 
And  the  night  is  cold ; 


152  A    LEGEND    OF    FREITENBERG. 

The  Lord  is  here,  and  I  trust  his  grace. 
Yet  you,  dear  children,  may  go  or  stay — 
The  arm  of  the  Lord  is  strong  alway." 

Vain  was  the  lover's  pleading  art ; 

The  girl,  with  a  blanched  cheek   bade  him  go, 
And  comfort  his  anxious  mother's  heart 
Who  waited  the  dear  frau's  will  to  know. 
Oh,  hark !  did  they  hear  the  coming  foe, 
Or,  was  it  the  noise  of  a  rumbling  wain  ? 

The  boy's  eye  kindled  —  he  grasped  his  gun; 
But  he  laid  it  back  in  its  place  again, 
As  the  grandam  spoke :  "  Nay,  only  One 
Can  help  us,  child  ! 
No  strength  of  ours 
Will  lay  the  tempest,  if  once  it  lowers ; 

But  we  can  pray  —  " 
And  she  prayed  from  the  Holy  Scriptures'  word  :  — 
"  Oh,  '  give  us  help  from  trouble,'  Lord, 
1  For  vain  is  the  help  of  man.' 
Oh,  hear  and  help  us,  Thou,  who  can  — 
That  undefiled, 
We  here  may  stay, 
Safe,  till  the  dawn  of  another  day. 


A    LEGEND    OF    FREITENBERG.  1 53 

Now,  surely,  the  trumpet  is  heard  afar! 

The  boy  from  the  window  gazes  forth ; 
But  all  is  dark  ;  no  moon,  no  star, 

Save  starry  flakes  from  the  windy  north  — 
Soft  flakes  that  rest  on  the  window-glass, 
As  apple-bloom  on  the  meadow-grass. 
"  Come,  sister,  see, 
How  the  street  below 
Is  white  already  with  fallen  snow  !  " 

But,  silently, 
She  drops  the  curtain  and  stirs  the  fire, 
For  the  dear,  old  grandmother  feels  the  cold. 
Ah,  fire  is  bold : 
The  flames  mount  higher, 
Too  high  for  the  fears  of  the  prisoned  fold ; 
So  they  deaden  the  glare  of  the  glowing  flame, 

And,  wrapped  for  warmth   in  each  other's  arms, 
Wait,  strengthened  by  trust  in  the  Holy  Name, 
Whatever  may  come  of  the  night's  alarms. 


Again  the  trumpet  —  but  now   'tis  dawn  — 
The  trumpet  foretelling  the  foe's  retreat. 
The  crimson  curtain  is  gently  drawn, 


!54  A    LEGEND    OF    FREITENBERG. 

And  wistful  eyes  look  out,  to  greet 
Something  betwixt  them  and  the  street : 

Oh,  strange  and  new 

The  sight  in  view, 
That  holds  the  maiden  in  pleased  amaze ! 

'Tis  a  wall  of  white, 

That  was  built  last  night, 
Blocking  with  ice  the  entrance-ways 

To  the  old  frau's  home  : 

The  foe  had  come, 
And  the  foe  had  gone  ;   but  not  before 
They  had  tracked  the  snow  in  the  byway  o'er 

With  heavy  feet 

What  was  it  then, 

Had  stayed  these  men 
From  devil's  work  in  the  house  up  there, 
But  God's  sure  answer  to  faithful  prayer  ? 


THE    FALSE    KING    AND    TRUE. 


RRAYED  in  purple  pride  of  royalty, 
And  coursing  onward  at  the  whirlwind's  pace, 
He  nears  the  yielding  limits  of  my  place  ; 
Flung  to  the  breeze  his  amber  locks  flow  free, 
And  though  not  fair  within,  the  radiancy 
Of  conquering  beauty  glows  upon  his  face  : 
Lo  !  'tis  the  tempter — and,  through  echoing  space, 
I  hear,  "Behold,  thy  King  comes  unto  thee." 


Not  so !     One  cometh  on  a  humbler  steed, 
And  while  he  bears  no  outward  royal  sign, 

No  purple  trappings  —  no,  nor  anything 
To  lure  the  senses — yet,  for  every  need 
I  know  him  potent,  since  he  is  divine  : 

'Tis  he,  and  he  alone,  who  is  the  King. 

'55 


MOTHER-L  OVE. 


aHEN  spring  is  young    and  violets  bloom, 
And  rills  go  laughing  on  their  way, 


When  hearts  keep  more  of  sun  than  gloom, 

And  life  is  just  an  April-clay, 
Then  girl  and  boy  in  tender  troth  — 

Daisies  beneath  them,  stars  above  — 
Believe  to  them  alone,  to  both, 

Is  given  the  perfect  flower  cf  love. 


What  time  the  summer  lifts  its  rose, 

That  flushes  with  the  pulse  of  June, 
And  down  the  vale  the  message  goes 

Of  wedding-bells  in  blissful  tune, 
The  pair,  grown  happier  with  the  days, 

Look  back  and  see  'twas  only  seed, 
That  spring-time  love  which  won  their  praise, 

Since  now  they  clasp  love's  flower  indeed ! 
i56 


SURSUM    CORDA.  157 

Yet  neither  season  knows  the  life 

Of  Autumn,  in  the  yellow  grain ; 
Or  grape  with  amber  juices  rife  — 

Knows  not  its  power  for  joy  or  pain ; 
No  untried  soul  the  passion  feels 

That  stirs  the  mother's  burdened  breast, 
Whose  wounded  child  through  her  reveals 

The  strength  of  Love's  divine  bequest. 


SURSUM    CORDA. 
"  For  the  fashion  of  this  world  passeth  away." 


OLD  it  up,  and  lay  it  away, 
That  silken  kerchief  of  rosy  gleam  : 
You    thought    it   would    heighten  your    charms    for 

him, 
And  bring  to  his  smile  a  softer  beam ; 
But  smiles  like  kisses  oft  betray  — 
Fold  it  up,  Maidan,  and  lay  it  away. 


158  SURSUM    CORDA. 

II. 

Fold  it  up,  and  lay  it  away, 
The  delicate  veil  with  its  orange-bloom ; 
The  rose  and  the  lily  must  fade  in  gloom 
Of  time  that  waits  with  a  silent  tomb  — 
Footprints  of  care  will  mark  the  way, 
Fold  it  up,  Bride,  and  lay  it  away. 

in. 

Fold  it  up,  and  lay  it  away, 
The  golden  curl  by  the  baby  worn  : 
Too  soon  he  will  reach  his  manhood's  morn 
And  a  newer  love  than  thine  be  born 

To  sun  itself  in  the  shining  ray! 

Fold  it  up,  Mother,  and  lay  it  away. 

IV. 

Fold  it  up,  and  lay  it  away  — 
The  love  that  has  blest  some  exquisite  hours; 
Thorns  there  were  many;  fewer  the  flowers, 
Yet  sweet  and  glowing  as  sun-swept  showers  — 
As  ready  with  sorrow  and  joy  as  they  : 
Fold  it  up,  Heart,  and  lay  it  away. 


SURSUM    CORDA. 


V. 


J59 


Fold  it  up,  and  lay  it  away  — 
Each  relic  so  precious  of  kindliest  thought ; 
Each  trifle  so  priceless  with  memory  fraught ; 
Each  heart-throb  whose  image  on  paper  was  caught : 

Too  sensitive  now  for  light  of  the  day, 

Fold  it  up,  Soul,  and  lay  it  away. 

VI. 

Fold  it  up,  and  lay  it  away:  — 
Dream  of  the  maiden,  all  roseate  bright ; 
Dream  of  the  bride,  in  visions  so  white ; 
Dream  of  the  mother,  ere  tears  dim  her  sight; 
Dream  of  the  soul,  while  yet  lingers  light; 

Change  is  predestined  —  the  World  must  decay, 

Fold  it  up,  Spirit,  and  lay  it  away. 


THE    MYSTIC    BARGE. 


GAIN  the  certain  messenger 
Is  close  upon  our  shadowed  shore, 
And  the  low  message  is  for  her 

Whose  tender  love  has  heretofore 
Been  first  to  offer  healing  balm, 
And  bid  our  troubled  souls  be  calm. 

The  black  barge  on  the  river  steers 
With  sure  advance  we  all  can<  see, 

And  not  a  hope  is  left  to  fears 
That,  trembling,  wait  expectantly 

Beside  the  brink  for  that  alarm 

Which  signals  Death's  enfolding  arm. 

How  every  oar's  slow  sweep  we  dread 
That  brings  him  nearer  none  can  know, 

Save  those  whose  hearts  like  ours  have  bled 
Through  love's  discouraged,  helpless  woe  — 

For  none  beside  can  feel  the  pain 

Of  love  that  knows  its  power  is  vain. 
1 60 


THE   MYSTIC   BARGE.  l6l 

And  Oh,  the  fear  that  Death  may  grasp 
Our  dear  one  with  a  rude  embrace,  ' 

And  we  shall  see  his  iron  clasp 
Too  cruel  imaged  on  her  face !  — 

Father,  to  thy  dark  angel  say, 

"  Bear  gently  this  my  child  away." 

(And  he  must  heed,  and  he  must  touch 
With  tenderest  soothing  her  tired  eyes  — 

And  we  shall  know  that  just  for  such 
As  she,  who  in  his  strong  arm  lies, 

Were  meant  those  words  of  comfort  deep, 

"He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep.'') 

Father,  give  ear  to  us,  who  pray, 

As  once  the  Holy  Supplicant, 
That  thou  may'st  take  this  cup  away 

Of  added  bitterness ;  and  grant 
To  her  soft  sailing  into  rest, 
And  blissful  landing  'mid  the  blest! 

Then  we  can  bear  to  let  her  go, 
Though  missing  in  our  daily  walk 


1 62  SPIRIT-PRESENCE. 

The  faithful  love  that  helped  us  so  — 

The  voice  that  cheered  with  hopeful  talk- 
Yes,  then — but  now,  with  quivering  breath 
We  wait  the  nearing  barge  of  death. 


SPIRIT-PRESENCE 


E  bow  the  head  and  stand  aloof 
Who  think  a  ghostly  presence  near ; 
Who  dread  th'  unbodied  soul's  reproof 

For  faults  that  cling  about  us  here  — 
That  hold  us  still  in  error's  thrall 
While  heavenly  life  is  freed  from  all. 

We  crave  the  presence,  yet  in  doubt 
If  love  can  smile  the  while  it  sees 

In  clearer  light  our  flecks,  without 
The  veil  that  partly  covered  these, 

When  in  our  mingling,  heart  with  heart, 

We  knew,  but  only  knew  in  part. 


SPIRIT-PRESENCE.  1 63 

Small  wonder  that  we  hide  the  face 

From  one  who  sees  with  quickened  sight  — 

And  that  we  long  for  some  sweet  grace 
To  lift  us  to  a  level  height 

With  risen  souls !     O  God,  forgive, 

In  whose  clear  sight  each  day  we  live. 


Lo !  'tis  of  Thy  forgiving  love, 

And  that  through  Thee  the  ransomed  look, 
We  are  not  scorned  by  saints  above, 

Who,  pitying,  all  our  follies  brook; 
And  who,  All-seeing  light  within, 
Grow  more  compassionate  of  our  sin. 


And  so,  as  gentle  as  before, 
A  very  guardian  o'er  my  days, 

I  see  one  smile  grow  more  and  more 
Indulgent  of  my  failing  ways  — 

I  smile  return :  but  quick  is  shed 

The  gloom  that  folds  the  silent  dead. 


FREE    WILL. 


HE  river  glideth  not  at  its  sweet  will : 
The  fountain  sends  it  forth, 
And  answering  to  earth's  finger  doth  it  still 
Go  East,  West,  South,  or  North. 

II. 

The  soul  alone  hath  perfect  liberty 

To  wend  its  own  free  way; 
And  only  as  it  wills  to  follow  Thee, 

O  Lord;  it  findeth  day. 


164 


LET    GLASGOW    FLOURISH/ 

THE   ANCIENT   MOTTO   OF   GLASGOW. 


'TWAS  a  labor  worthy  him 

Whose  effort  pierced  the  cloister's  dim 


Uncertain  ways;  who  probed  the  cells 


Of  legal-guarded  hells 


Whose  genius  cleaves  each  rotten  creed 
The  large-souled,  earnest-natured  Reade 
To  lead  us  up  in  tribute  meet 
To  leal,  old  Lambert's  feet. 

Life-saver,  swimmer,  diver  bold, 
He  braved  the  flood,  or  dark  or  cold, 
And  victims  from  its  ruth  he  bore 
As  never  man  before. 

Full  oft  the  river  breweth  dole 
From  Ru'glen  Brig  to  Dominie's  Hole  ; 
And  not  by  lure  of  pits  alone 
But  mill-dyes  hotly  sown  ! 
165 


l66  "LET   GLASGOW   FLOURISH." 

To  Lambert  scores  of  bosoms  owed 
The  breath  Promethean-wise  bestowed; 
'Ere  faint  from  icy  seas  to  light 
He  rose  with  darkened  sight. 

Then,  did  they  give  him  love  for  love  ? 
Did  service  spring  their  love  to  prove  ? 
Said  he,  that  simple  man  and  wise, 
"With  me  a  great  debt  lies." 

And  so,  they  turned  them  from  the  weight 
Of  thanks  far  easier  owed  to  fate: 
While  he  —  he  sees  not  even  the  scene 
Where  his  sweet  toil  has  been. 

Yet  long  as  flows  the  river  Clyde 
Above  the  deeds  it  strives  to  hide, 
Shall  murmurous  waves  repeat  his  name 
In  dulcet  notes  of  fame. 

The  waters  flowing  in  excess 


Shall  speak  the  blinded  man's  distress, 
When  daft  a  drowning  lad  to  save, 
Friends  held  him  from  the  wave. 


INTERCHANGE.  1 67 

And  long  as  swells  the  Scottish  tongue, 
Though  England  first  the  story  sung, 
Shall  Glasgow's  streets  the  tale  renew, 
Of  one  so  brave  and  true. 


INTERCHANGE 


"  We  cannot  live  except  thus  mutually 
We  alternate,  aware  or  unaware, 
The  reflex  act  of  life." 


|WEET   child   of    the    snow-drift,    so   tenderly 
simple, 

So  tearfully  sunny,  so  modestly  gay, 
Whose  frown  in  a  moment  gives  place  to  a  dimple, 
Whose  smiles  and  whose  frowns  meet  in  magical 
way  — 


1 68  A    MAYING. 

Why  bringest  thou  blossoms  my  gateway  to  garland, 
Why  spreadest  a  verdurous  sheen  at  my  feet, 

Why  makest  the  meadows   a   marvelous  star-land, 
My  coming  with  undisguised  rapture  to  greet?" 

"O  Juno-like  Summer,  yet   couched   on  thy  roses, 

Whose  sweet-scented  crimson  awaits  thee  to  fold, 
I  come  from  the  bloom  that  the  apple  discloses 

To  fetch  thee  from  Winter  thy  heirloom  of  gold. 
He  made  me  the  cradle  in  which  I  lay  covered  — 

Thy  sweet-scented  breath  blew  the  cover  away : 
Behind  me,  before  me,  love  ever  has  hovered, 

And  I  love's  reciprocal  law  but  obey." 


A    MAYING 


IS  come  —  the  lovely  May-time 
Arbutus  trails  the  ground  — 
Its  incense  rare  perfumes  the  air, 
And  violets  abound ; 


A    MAYING.  169 


The  breath  of  song  is  everywhere  ; 

The  star-set  grass  is  gay, 
That  ushers  in  the  playtime 

Of  one  sweet  day  in  May. 


Not  troops  of  schoolmates  merely, 

But  other  folk  than  these 
Hear,  thrilling  all,  the  season's  call 

To  picnic  under  trees. 
Soft  showers  of  apple-blossoms  fall, 

Like  snows,  upon  the  wTay  — 
Is  winter  back  ?     No  ;  clearly 

'Tis  merry,  mocking  May. 


So,  each  one  takes  a  hamper 

Of  wholesome  things  and  good, 
From  which  to  pour  a  generous  store 

At  noontime  in  the  wood ; 
'Tis  fun  to  spread  the  table  o'er, 

But  better  fun  to  stay 
With  boys  and  girls  that  scamper 

In  life  befitting  May. 


170  A    MAYING. 

The  time  is  out  of  fashion 

When  May-queens  ruled  the  hour; 
When  Floras  prone  before  the  throne 

Laid  gifts  of  bud  and  flower; 
Such  feudal  form  is  overgrown 

In  this  our  freer  day, 
When  we  with  equal  passion 

Crown,  each,  our  own  in  May. 


Too  quick  the  day  is  ending 

With  all  its  pleasure  keen; 
The  hampers  glow  with  gathered  show 

Of  blossoms  mixed  with  green  ; 
And  now  the  sunset  bids  us  go — 

The  world  is  clad  in  gray  — 
Yet,  bright  hope  lives  befriending:  — 

"  There'll  come  another  Mav." 


BABY    GRACE 


TO   G.   W.    H. 


jUR  baby  Grace 
Has  the  fairest  face 
In  the  babies'  fairest  list : 
Eyes  violet-blue 
Just  touched  with  dew, 
And  cheeks  by  the  angels  kissed. 

Her  tiny  hand 

Is  of  sure  command, 
Though  her  glance  is  shy  the  while  ; 

And  her  lips,  rose-pink, 

Are  as  sweet  we  think 
As  seraphim's  when  they  smile. 

Like  the  olden  god1 
Who  watched  the  sod, 


The  Scandinavian  god,  Heimdal. 


172  BABY  GRACE. 

And  heard  the  blossoms  blow, 

We  lay  an  ear 

Our  darling  near, 
And  fancy  we  hear  her  grow. 

Her  pure  soul  then 
To  our  quickened  ken, 

Seems  swelling  in  tune  beneath  ; 
As  the  garden  bloom 
And  its  rich  perfume 

Is  sung  by  the  budding  sheath. 

Oh,  our  baby  Grace 

Has  the  sweetest  face 
In  the  whole  wide  world  today; 

At  least  it  is  so 

To  us  you  know, 
And  nobody  says  us  "Nay." 


THANKSGIVING    HYMN. -1876 


|0R  zephyr,  tempest,  sunshine,  rain, 
And  all  the  elemental  host 


Of  blessings,  though  disguised  as  pain, 

And  for  the  pain,  it  may  be,  most, 
We  thank  Thee,  Father,  once  again. 


Upon  this  new  Thanksgiving  Day, 
We  consecrate  afresh  to  thee 

Our  gifts ;  and  on  thine  altar  lay 
The  fragrant  fruit  of  liberty, 

Whose  purple  clusters  arch  our  way. 


The  increase  came  from  Thee  alone ; 

And  though  we  plant  and  water  still, 
Thou,  only  Thou,  Almighty  One, 

The  cup  of  our  desire  canst  fill, 
In  wisdom's  freer,  purer  sun. 

173 


174  A    THANKSGIVING    HYMN. 1876. 

O,  shrive  us  of  each  gathered  sin  — 

The  tares  upspringing  'mid  our  wheat  — 

And  let  Thy  beauty  pierce  within 
Our  shadowy  copses  ;  and  Thy  feet 

Restore  the  ground  where  wrong  has  been. 

Let  Right  grow  great  a  hundredfold, 
Whose  seed  a  century  since  upbore ; 

Let  root  and  branch  more  strong,  more  bold, 
Spread  healing  leaves  a  larger  store, 

And  gracious  shelter  long  uphold. 

For  greater  hope,  beyond  the  good 
Already  ours,  we  thank  Thee,  Lord; 

And  thankful  are  that  unsubdued, 

Whilst  sore  beset  has  been  Thy  Word, 

Our  faith  has  each  new  foe  withstood. 

But  speech  may  scarce  avail  to  pour 
To  Thee  the  worship  of  our  hearts, 

Whose  incense  breaks  from  sea  and  shore 
In  Nature's  triumphs  and  in  Art's, 

Taught  of  Thy  spirit  to  adore. 


A    CHRISTMAS    CAROL.  1 75 

And  since  unmeet  a  single  tongue 
To  voice  Thee  on  our  day  of  days, 

O,  bid  that  day  to  shine  among 
Whatever  lives  to  laud  thy  ways, 

And  praise  be  so  forever  sung. 


A    CHRISTMAS    CAROL. 


HERE'S  a  shimmer  in  the  sunshine, 
Such  as  never  shone  before ; 


In  the  sky  the  blue  is  bluer 
Than  the  heavens  ever  wore; 

On  the  bay  the  water  glistens 
With  the  purest  skyey  sheen, 

And  the  frosted  sails  seem  whiter 
Than  the  whitest  ever  seen. 


176  A    CHRISTMAS    CAROL. 

There  is  something  in  the  voices 

Of  the  people  that  we  meet, 
Overtopping  with  soft  music 

Any  discord  of  the  street. 
Through  the  house  the  sounds  are  merry 

Both  in  low  and  upper  hall  — 
And  a  stranger  might  be  puzzled 

Quite  to  comprehend  it  all. 


But  we  know,  we  happy  Christians, 

As  we  greet  the  cheerful  morn, 
That  the  world  took  on  new  beauty 

When  the  infant  Christ  was  born ; 
And  his  birthday  gladly  keeping 

Unto  us  it  is  not  strange, 
That,  made  conscious  of  his  presence, 

Common  things  to  fairer  change. 


And  that  every  newer  Christmas 
Brings  delight  that's  ever  new; 

To  the  little  ones  grown  wiser, 
And  their  elders  wiser  too. 


A    CHRISTMAS    CAROL.  1 77 

For  we  learn,  however  slowly, 

This  evangel  of  the  Christ: 
That  true  love  becomes  the  ruler 

When  self-love  is  sacrificed. 


Oh,  'tis  love  that  gilds  the  sunshine; 

Love  that  paints  the  sky  more  blue ; 
Love  that  floods  the  streets  with  music 

As  the  people  jostle  through ; 
Love  that  makes  the  storm  seem  kindly, 

And  the  wind  a  cheery  friend; 
Love  that  scatters  feast  of  riches, 

While  it  gathers  without  end. 


Oh,  'tis  love  that  leads  our  voices 

To  the  singing  of  fresh  songs, 
Though  they  only  tell  old  sweetness 

That  to  Christmas-tide  belongs  — 
Though  they  but  repeat  old  carols, 

Full  of  gratefulness  and  praise, 
For  the  crowning  of  the  seasons 

With  the  joy  of  Christmas  days. 


A    CENTURY    OLD. 

NEW  YEAR'S   EVE   (1876). 


ARK  —  the  long,  continuous  swells 
Of  the  old  and  new  years'  bells! 


Borne  upon  the  midnight  air, 
Breaking  through  the  torchlight  glare, 
Bearing  over  spire  and  vane, 
Over  mountain,  over  plain, 
Freedom's  song  is  grandly  rolled — 
Freedom's  song  a  century  old. 

Never  pealed  such  bells  before, 
Ringing  clear  from  shore  to  shore  : 
From  Atlantic's  crested  surge 
To  the  broad  Pacific's  verge; 
From  Canadian  forest's  snow, 
To  the  Gulf  Stream's  tropic  flow  — 
Ringing  brave  and  ringing  bold 
Freedom's  song  a  century  old. 
178 


A    CENTURY    OLD.  1 79 

Other  years  to  gloom  have  stept, 
And  for  them  our  hearts  have  wept ; 
But  for  this  —  in  which  a  flower 
Whitely  crowns  the  waning  hour, 
Spreading  fragrance  far  and  near  — 
Have  we  only  smiles  and  cheer : 
For  these  dying  hours  unfold 
Freedom's  plant  a  century  old. 


Sun  and  rain  the  roots  have  fed ; 
Toil  to  pleasure  has  been  wed 
In  the  care  its  growth  has  known  ; 
Rises  from  the  sod  a  moan 
Where  the  dews  of  carnage  fell ; 
But,  o'er  all,  rare  blossoms  swell 
Fair-leaved  with  a  heart  of  gold, 
Bloom  of  seed  a  century  old. 


Comes  the  new  year  lordly  in, 
Claiming  pure  descent  from  kin 
Wise  and  firm  in  freedom's  way: 
Not  the  creature  of  a  day, 


l8o  CLOUD-SEERS. 

Poising  unaccustomed  wings 
Is  the  liberty  he  brings  — 
No;   these  bells  by  use  uphold 
Freedom,  now  a  century  old ! 

Bravery  in  the  message  dwells 
Of  our  sweet  Centennial  bells ; 
While,  to  heavenly  concert  brought 
By  the  larger  freedom  wrought 
In  these  days  that  we  behold, 
Echoing  voices  long  foretold 
Ring,  in  triumph  uncontrolled, 
Freedom's  praise  a  century  old ! 

Philadelphia,  December  ji,  i8j6. 


CLOUD-SEERS. 
"  Miserable  comforters  are  ye  all.' 


UT  of  my  sunshine  !     Leave  to  me,  pray, 
The  saving  light  of  a  hopeful  soul ; 


Guerdon  the  richest  that's  given  away, 
Meted  with  that,  is  a  meager  dole. 


CLOUD-SEERS.  l8l 

Gladness  is  mine  of  its  golden  right  — 

Spare  me  the  friend  whose  foreboding  tale 

Croaks  in  the  sun  of  the  curtained  night, 
And  grieves  the  noon  in  the  narrow  vale. 

Waiting  no  prophecy,  darkness  weaves 
Mystery's  meshes  of  wind  and  rain. 

Today  is  blest  in  its  amber  sheaves  — 
Time  is  not  come  for  the  coming  pain. 

Faileth  in  season  the  fruits,  each  one ; 

Faileth  the  gift  that  we  guard  with  care  — 
Even  our  life-blood.     Still  the  sun 

Is  warming  my  path ;    pray,  stand  not  there  ! 

"  Out  of  my  sunshine !  "     Never  was  ring 

Of  truer  metal  than  rings  in  these 
Words,  that  were  hurled  at  a  gracious  king, 

By  the  kingly  soul  of  Diogenes. 

Out  of  my  sunshine  !     Tune  me  no  tune 

In  the  minor  notes  of  the  mourning  throng; 

Leave  to  me  rather  the  beiisfars  boon 
Of  a  glowing  sun  and  a  grateful  song. 


152  "WAIT   A    WEE,    AS'    DINNA    WEARY.' 

Cannot  you  see  it  is  peace  and  health  — 

Wine  of  a  better  than  best  to  me  ? 
That  friendship  and  honor,  fame  and  wealth 

Lie  hidden  in  hope's  fertility  ? 

That  blessings  are  born  of  the  soul's  good  cheer? 

That  spirits  despondent,  pale  and  wan, 
Faint  in  the  famine  begot  of  fear? 

Then  out  of  my  sunshine,  quick,   begone! 


"WAIT    A    WEE,    AN'    DINNA 
WEARY." 


VILLAGE  school-room  —  this  the  scene 
Aglow  with  a  slant  sun  cheery : 
A  dominie  there  of  youthful  mien, 
With  the  sword  of  his  spirit  sharp  and  keen ; 
And  a  class  of  girls  in  serried  row, 
Some  taller,   and  some  of  stature  low, 
And  some  like  the  dawning  sun,  afire 
To  reach  the  summit  of  brave  desire  ; 
And,  as  aye,  some  unco'  dreary ! 


"wait  a  wee,  an'  dinna  weary."         183 

"  I  canna  an'  winna  teach,  an'  ye 

Sae  stupid  the  while  I  query — 
Nae  vision  for  ocht  but  vanity!" 
With  thundering  rap  the  dominie 
Out-blurted,  chafed  by  a  listless  girl, 
Whose  only  care  seemed  to  smooth  and  twirl 
Her  apron  streamers.     "Will  onie  lass 
Mak'  answer  in  a'  this  glaikit  class  ? " 

The  dominie  sighed  aweary. 

"Oh,  ay,"  said  a  little  one,  "I  can  tell." 

"  Weel,  out  wi't,  then,  my  dearie  "  — 
And  the  frown  from  the  master's  forehead  fell, 
For  the  sweetest  girl  in  the  school  was  Nell  — 
"  I  want  ye  to  show  me  the  meaning  plain 
O'  patience ;    sin'  ow'r  an'  ow'r  again 
I've  put  it  this  day ! "     Then  the  little  maid, 
With  a  roguish  twinkle  soberly  said  : 
"  Wait  a  wee,  ai?  dinna  weary  I" 


INDIAN    SUMMER. 


HO  is  the  maiden  with  a  cup 
Of  gold  between  her  finger  tips, 
Its  amber  fruitage  lifted  up 

To  meet  the  crimson  of  her  lips? 
She  pledges  with  a  winsome  grace 
The  lovers  kneeling  at  her  feet, 
Who  know  not,  looking  in  her  face, 
If  shine  or  shadow  be  more  sweet. 


A  queen  she  treads  the  fragrant  ground 

With  burnished  sandals,  that  awake 
Melodious  discord  all  around, 

From  heart-strings  broken  for  her  sake. 
Both  queen  and  woman  —  O,  the  pain, 

At  such  expense  her  state  to  keep ! 
Better,  she  thinks,  than  sanguined  plain 

Herself  beneath  the  sod  to  sleep. 
i84 


INDIAN    SUMMER.  185 

Sadly  she  gazes  on  the  death 

Of  passing  joy,  joy  passed  away; 
Sees,  where  the  future  shadoweth 

The  transient  glory  of  today; 
And  fain  to  shut  the  vision  out 

She  weaves  a  film  of  latent  sighs, 
Drawing  the  gauzy  veil  about 

Her  soft,  warm  cheek  and  hazel  eyes. 


Now — all  a  queen  'tis  hers  to  smile, 

And  smiling,  yet  a  kingdom  sate ; 
Though  silent  in  her  breast  the  while 

Rise  pale  forebodings  of  her  fate. 
Her  gorgeous  robes,  made  gayer  still, 

She  clasps  with  richly  jewelled  bands, 
And  ruling  with  a  royal  will, 

Spreads  fair  her  benedictive  hands. 


Only  a  little  day  she  sways  — 

This  tender,  nut-brown  Indian  queen  — 
Mysterious  comes,  mysterious  stays, 

Then  leaves  to  gloom  the  fading  scene. 


1 86  THE    DEAREST    DARLING. 

Yet  holds  she  by  the  right  divine 
And  dares  not  lay  her  scepter  down, 

Until  her  cup  has  spent  its  wine 

And  heaven  recalls  her  golden  crown. 


THE    DEAREST    DARLING 


HE  dearest  darling  under  sun 
Is  this  my  singing  heart  would  show; 
Earth  surely  holds  no  other  one, 

In  all  her  lovely  garden-row 
Of  precious  babies  born  to  praise, 
So  perfect  in  so  many  ways. 

A  little  thing — the  merest  mite 

Of  budding  daintiness  is  she  ; 
A  fairy  being  that  not  quite 

Twelve  moons  have  breathed  on  blessedly: 
A  cooing  dove,  whose  happy  notes 
Would  fill  a  hundred  birdling  throats. 


THE   DEAREST   DARLING.  187 

Were  you  to  see  her  glee  some  start, 
Springing  to  catch  an  offered  joy  — 

Or  yet,  the  more  than  tender  art 

With  which  she  leans  so  trustful,  coy, 

The  least  caress  of  love  to  meet  — 

You  could  not  help  but  call  her  sweet. 

So  rarely  sweet  she  seems  to  me, 
I  marvel  much  if  heaven  can  spare 

For  long,  such  radiant  purity; 
Or,  missing,  will  recall  it  where 

Bright  cherubs,  full  of  gladness,  wait 

The  coming  of  their  little  mate. 

Still,  if  it  rest  with  human  care 

To  keep  her  spirit  in  its  frame, 
We'll  safely  guard  our  mortal  share, 

Not  letting  heaven  its  treasure  claim: 
For  lost  to  us  were  life's  best  grace, 
If  we  should  lose  her  sunny  face. 


Tis  scarce  an  idle  vagary 
To  deem  it  lighted  from  above, 


i88 


THE    DYING    GIRL'S    BEQUEST. 


Since  Christ  has  said  "  their  angels  see 

Always  my  Father's  face"  of  love; 
Since,  too,  an  angel  must  have  taught 
The  smile,  which  she  to  earth  has  brought. 

O,  that  she  still  a  child  remain, 

Love's  light  o'erbrimming  through  her  lips, 
Though  woman's  beauty  she  attain 

To  lose  it  of  the  years'  eclipse ; 
For  heaven's  delights  are  only  free, 
To  just  such  little  ones  as  she ! 


THE    DYING    GIRL'S    BEQUEST 


IARK !    sweet  sister,  I  can  hear 
In  the  distance  voices  calling — 
Sounds  that  meet  my  listening  ear, 

Like  soft  rain-drops  falling  — 
Falling  like  the  summer  rain 
On  a  field  of  thirsty  grain : 


THE    DYING   GIRL  S    BEQUEST. 

Voices  straight  from  God,  I'm  sure, 
Angel  harpists  sent  in  kindness 

My  worn  spirit  to  allure 

From  this  filmy  blindness  — 

Blindness  which  mysteriously 

Hides  thy  beauty,  sweet,  from  me. 

All  the  colors  of  the  earth 

Now  seem  melting  in  the  measure ; 
Now  a  bloom  of  heavenly  birth 

Floods  the  air  with  treasure  — 
Treasure  that  I  long  to  clasp 
With  my  thin  hand's  earnest  grasp. 

But  no  longer  with  my  hand 
May  I  gather  scattered  roses; 

In  death's  near  and  noiseless  land 
Nerveless  all  reposes : 

Oh,  I  grieve  for  your  dear  sake, 

From  the  world  these  hands  to  take! 

Hands  that  learned  of  love  and  need 
And  of  deftness,  arts  of  beauty, 


190  THE   DYING    GIRL'S    BEQUEST. 

All  the  while  their  homely  creed, 

Just  to  do  their  duty. 
Skilled  at  last  to  do  and  know, 
Must  they  from  you  idly  go? 

But  God  orders  all  things  well; 

List !  the  angel  voices  clearer  — 
Was  that,  dear,  a  curtain  fell? 

Come,  sweet,  nearer,  nearer. 
Hold  them  —  something  says  to  me : 
"  Your  hands  a?-e  her  legacy" 

Now,  my  sister,  all  is  peace; 

All  is  won  for  which  I've  striven; 
Love  in  trust  has  found  release, 

Bliss  to  faith  is  given  — 
Rapturous  music  fills  the  air, 
Crowned  at  length  is  work  and  prayer. 


SUNDOWN 


[HERE  sky  begins  or  sea-line  ends 
In  yon  horizon's  mysteries, 
No  eye  can  mark,  so  softly  blends 

The  sea's  and  sky's  infinities : 
The  blue  sea  wears  a  crown  of  flame, 
The  rosy  clouds  drink  sapphire  dew, 
Till,  melted  into  each,  no  name 
Of  human  thought  defines  the  hue. 


And  thus  the  mortal  life,  meseems, 

At  waning  tide  shall  woven  be 
With  life  immortal  —  earth's  best  dreams 

And  heaven's  blent  in  harmony; 
Till  only  infinite  wisdom  knows 

The  word,  beyond  our  speech's  range, 
To  paint  the  mystic  light  that  throws 

Its  veil  of  peace  about  the  change. 


LOVE'S    SIGNET 


TO    LEONARD. 


|IVE  years  old  is  the  beautiful  fellow? 
Five  years  old  did  you  say,  next  May, 
Yet,  now,  while  the  corn-field  still  is  yellow, 
His  birthday  verse  you  would  have  today? 

Well — now  or  later,  be  even  chances, 
If  music  I  mate  to  a  boy's  fair  grace, 

Whose  hair  just  a  frolic  of  sunshine  dances 
Ring  upon  ring  round  a  rosy  face. 

Whose  eye  has  sparkles  of  heaven  within  it, 
Blue  as  a  sapphire,  blue  as  the  sea, 

Changing  with  sentiment  every  minute, 
Bonny  and  blithe  as  an  eye  can  be. 

Save  that  I  know  he  was  born  of  woman, 
I  could  think  that  an  angel  came  to  earth, 


THE    SWEETENER.  1 93 

And  cradled  him  soft  in  a  bosom  human, 
His  eyes  the  clue  to  his  cherub  birth. 

Yet  true,  did  an  angel  come,  down-winging  — 
Since  Love  is  the  angel  truest,  best  — 

Come  to  the  mother-breast  softly  singing. 
And  folded  his  wings  for  a  mortal  rest. 

So  here  is  the  key  to  the  starry  splendor 
Of  two  blue  eyes  to  the  heavens  leal  — 

Over  their  nesting-place  Love  broods  tender, 
And  Love  on  the  boy  has  set  his  seal. 


THE     SWEETENER. 


|PRIXG^blossom,  rose  of  June    and  Autumn 
cluster, 

Appeal  alike  to  the  glad  eye  of  health. 
In  whose  spontaneous,  overflowing  luster, 
Is  half  the  secret  of  the  seasons'  wealth. 


194  L0VE  AND   REST. 

The  pallid  cheek  may  warm  to  apple  flushes, 
The  fevered  hand  clasp  fondly   sweets  of  June, 

The  languid  palate  leap  to  fruitage  luscious, 
Yet  weary  of  their  day  before  the  noon. 

'Tis  laughing  Health,  with  an  unhindered  fountain 
Of  joy  upbubbling  from  her  being's  core, 

Whose  lavish  life  embraces  vale  or  mountain  — 
Who  drains  delight  at  every  opened  door. 


LOVE    AND    REST. 
Love  is  sweeter  than  rest."  —  Henry  Timrod. 


EST  will  soon  be  granted,  dear  — 
Think  of  all  the  bliss 
When  you  reach  the  brighter  sphere, 

Lifted  free  of  this  ! 
Home,  and  rest,  and  palms,  and  peace, 

Verily,  such  gain 
O'er  the  losses  of  release 
Balances  the  pain  !  " 


LOVE   AND    REST.  1 95 

Yea ;  but  human  love  to  me 
Is  so  near  divine, 

That  my  heart  clings  yearningly- 
Even  to  life  like  mine. 

Love  is  sweeter  far  than  rest  — 
That  alone  I  know  — 

And  the  soul  that  loves  me  best 
Will  not  let  me  go." 


"  Home,  and  rest,  and  heaven,  dear, 

Love  is  in  them  all ! 
Tenderest  love  is  given,  dear, 

In  the  Saviour's  call ; 
He  would  lift  your  face  to  his, 

Fold  you  to  his  breast, 
Teach  you  what  a  crowning  'tis 

When  He  offers  rest ! " 


Rest  is  sweet  —  how  well  I  know- 

Rest  that  follows  care, 
When  the  tired  sun  droppeth  low, 

And  beside  my  chair 


196  LOVE    AND    REST. 


Listens  one  while  I  repeat, 
By  her  love  caressed  : 

Ah,  my  darling,  love  is  sweet, 
Sweeter  even  than  rest." 


"  Yet,  belove'd,  more  than  we 

Understand,  he  gives 
Unto  him  who  trustfully 

In  his  promise  lives ; 
Measure  all  the  bliss  we  can 

It  must  be  believed  — 
Never  has  the  heart  of  man 

Perfect  joy  conceived  !  " 


"True,  ah,  true,  and  well  I  mark 

All  your  words  would  teach; 
And  my  soul  beyond  the  dark 

Stretches  forth  to  reach 
Faith  yet  fuller,  more  complete, 

While  my  lips  attest 
It  is  love  makes  heaven  sweet : 

Love  is  more  than  rest .'  " 


LOCO. 


TRANSCRIPT    OF   AN    EXPERIENCE    OF    ...    IN    ARIZONA. 


AY,  say  not  the  red  man  of  romance 
Is  a  creature  of  fancy,  and  fled 
Is  all  of  the  glory  that  crowned  him  — 
But  say  of  his  hope  :  //  is  dead. 


It  was  down  in  the  wilds  of  San  Carlos, 
In  the  shade  of  an  ended  day, 

That  I  found,  as  often  had  happened, 
In  my  room  an  Indian  lay. 

Vexed  at  the  calm  intrusion, 

Yu-ka-shee}  cried  I,  then ; 
And  moved  by  a  rash  impatience, 

Yu-ka-shee  —  once  again. 


1  Yu-ka-shce  is  a  liberal  Indian  spelling  for  "  get  out.'' 
197 


I98  LOCO. 

Slowly  a  tall  form  heightened, 

Drawing  its  length  from  the  floor; 

And  slowly  a  stalwart  figure 

Passed  passively  through  the  door. 


The  darkness  covered  his  features, 
But  through  it  a  stifled  sigh 

Quivered,  in  hushed  deprecation, 
On  a  chieftain's  lip  to  die. 

I  followed  out  into  the  plaza, 

And  there,  with  his  shoulders  bowed, 
His  head  on  his  hand,  stood  Loco, 

(Peerless  among  the  proud) 

Thoughtful,  subdued  in  the  gloaming; 

His  heart  as  his  head  low  bent, 
Sighing,  no  doubt,  in  silence, 

Over  a  faith  misspent. 

Humbly  I  asked  for  pardon; 
Royal,  he  smiled  release 


LOCO.  199 


Of  penance  ;  and  soon  together 

We  were  smoking  the  pipe  of  peace. 


Now,  after  a  twelve  months'  waning, 

This  is  the  news  I  learn : 
"Loco  is  off  on  the  war-path 

With  sixty  bucks,"  that  burn 

For  revenge  on  the  pale-faced  traitors ; 

Who  led  them  from  homes  more  fair, 
To  the  desolate  reservation 

Of  San  Carlos  —  holding  them    there. 

(Holding  the  few  that  trusted 
While  many  —  Victorio's  band  — 

Chose  rather  the  freedom  of  outlaws 
Than  shelter  on  alien  land.) 

Brave  Loco  believed  in  the  Nan-tan1  — 
(Who  yet  would  their  wrongs  atone ; 

WTho,  out  of  their  wintry  troubles 
Would  lift  them  into  his  sun)  — 


The  father  at  Washington. 


200  LOCO. 

Till,  shamed  in  the  trust,  his  spirit 
So  gentle,  so  gracious,  so  strong, 

Now  yields  the  lamb  to  the  lion, 
To  the  war-whoop  the  evening  song. 

Ah,  who  that  has  seen  can  wonder? 

These  warriors  forced  to  sue 
A  power  not  always  benignant, 

For  each  passport !     Say,  could  you  ? 

And  how  are  you  more  than  Loco, 
Though  lily-white  to  his  red  ? 

Powerful-limbed,  handsome  is  Loco, 
With  a  courteous  grace  inbred  ; 

And  lovely  is  Loco's  daughter ; 

And  beautiful  Loco's  wife  : 
I  have  seen  them  all,  and  I  show  you 

The  trio  true  to  life. 

And,  too,  a  radiant  baby, 

Upheld  in  the  mother's  arms  — 

Models  for  Bouguereau's  canvas, 

With  their  dusk  and  brilliant  charms. 


LOCO.  201 

Such  as  these,  in  tutelage  painful 

Would  you  trammel,  and  tell  them  when 

And  just  how  long  they  may  wander 
At  liberty  from  their  pen  ? 

For  an  hour,  or  a  clay,  it  may  be  — 

Only  a  furlough's  space  — 
And  always  with  this  condition, 

That  overstay  brings  disgrace  : 

The  calaboose  and  hard  labor  — 
Well  —  the  calaboose  needs  to  be 

Kept  in  supply  of  sinew 
To  serve  at  the  Agency ! 

Yet  why  this  profitless  protest  ? 

Where  the  fault  is  will  follow  the  ban, 
White  or  red  man  in  error ;  yet,  Loco, 

Forsooth  is  a  chivalrous  man. 


Hark  !  a  later  dispatch  :  "  Killed  is  Loco." 

If  fallen,  an  outlaw  he  fell ; 
And  were  he  than  all  men  more  noble, 

The  answer  must  be  :    It  is  well. 


TO    A    CRUSHED    VIOLET. 


gaiMID    violet,  sadly  shrinking 
HJal   From  the  help  that  I  essay, 
Fain  would  I  with  freshest  dew-drops, 
All  your  weariness  allay  — 
Yet  I  give  you  what  I  may. 


Must  you  always  droop  your  eye-lids 
O'er  the  love-light  treasured  deep  ? 

Nay  —  around  you,  spread  your  purple  ; 
Do  not  such  low  vigil  keep, 
Hiding  eyes  not  made  to  weep. 


Yet  your  presence  is  so  fragrant, 
Making  all  my  world  so  sweet, 

I  have  not  the  heart  to  murmur 
That  my  glance  you  will  not  meet, 
Earnestly  though  I  entreat. 


TO    A    CRUSHED    VIOLET.  203 

Bending  thus  and  shedding  perfume 

Is  so  sad,  there  seems  to  be 
In  your  form  but  music's  echo  — 

Music  from  all  gladness   free  : 

Pale,  and  in  a  minor  key. 

Still,  I  wis,  above  your  sadness 
Of  a  song  to  drown  its  moan  — 

'Tis  of  tender  love  in  waiting: 
Will  not  love,  true  love,  atone 
For  the  lost  joy  you  have  known  ? 

Yes,  I  think  my  love  has  saved  you : 

Lifted,  darling,  is  your  head! 
Light  from  gracious  depth  is  welling  — 

Now,  at  last  my  hope  is  fed, 

Beauty  unto  life  re-wed. 

Now  —  but  no;  I'll  hold  the  measure, 
Lest  to  careless  gaze  I  show 

All  the  story,  quickened  violet ! 
'Tis  enough  for  me  to  know 
Love's  sweet  secret,  singing  low. 


MIGNONETTE. 


Y  sweetheart  to  my  heart  I  hold, 
Not  only  for  the  sweetness 


Of  inner  life  she  cloth   unfold, 
But  womanhood's  completeness ! 
And  I  have  plucked  a  charming  flower,  her  name 
in  sign  to  set  — 
A  rare-souled  flower  of  dainty  mold : 
Exquisite  Mignonette. 


This  fragrant  bloom  of  garden  birth 

Is  modest,  yet  persuasive, 
Because  the  sweet  it  saps  from  earth 
By  fullness  is  invasive. 
'Tis  truest  measure  of  my  love  of   all  the    flowers 
I've  met : 
An  herbe  d* amour — petite  in  girth, 
Delicious  Mignonette ! 


MIGNONETTE.  2  05 

Yet  flowers  no  answering  passion  prove, 

Though  sanguine-tipped  in  color; 
And  in  this  one,  I'm  sure,  my  love 
Wakes  envy's  tint  of  dolor. 
Oh,  well  I  know  not  any  sign  could  aught  of  grac° 
beget, 
So  pure  and  peerless  as  my  dove  — 
My  precious  Mignonette ! 

But  still  my  heart  leaps  up  to  say  — 

For  just  the  mere  suggestion 
Which  comes  with  a  reseda-spray  — 
That  far  beyond  all  question 
Of    loveliness    in   other   flowers  —  though   rose   or 
violet  — 
To  me,  none  other  can  betray 
The  charm  of  Mignonette. 


THE    FLUSHED    FIRMAMENT 
1883-S4. 


ROM    eastern   bound  to  west,  from  north  to 
south, 

O'er  torrid  lands  and  seas  of  icy  beds, 
O'er  fruitful  fields  and  deserts  given  to  drouth, 
The  sun  unwonted  crimson  glory  spreads. 

In  cities  where  the  sky,  a  narrow  belt, 

Showed  ruddy  flame  without  the  tender  grace 

Of  marginal  tints,  that  in  each  other  melt, 

The  people  cried,  "  'Tis  fire  that  we  must  face." 

But  when  they  found  the  welkin  broadly  glows 
With  blood-red  hues  long  after  set  of  sun  — 

Saw  that  the  dawn  a  roseate  splendor  shows 
Before  her  gold  and  silver  threads  are  spun  — 

Then  said  they,   "  What  is  this  new  thing  we  see  — 
This  change  of  order  in  the  ordered  ways 
206 


THE    FLUSHED    FIRMAMENT. 


207 


Of  morn  and  eve  ?     The  end  must  surely  be  ! 
Such  sign  portends  the  earth's  completed  days." 

The  wiser  ones  in  answer  to  such  fear : 

"'Tis  cosmic  dust."     "No  doubt,  the  comet's  tail 

Has  stirred  commotion  in  the  nebulous  sphere.'' 
11  Lo  !  'tis  volcanic  breath."     But  still  they  fail 

To  solve  assured,  the  problem  of  the  day  — 
Whether  it  bodes  an  elemental  war, 

Or  nature's  thousand  years  of  peaceful  sway;  — 
Ah,  not  exhausted  is  God's  repertoire 

Of  miracles  and  marvels  !     There  is  yet 
Untold  divineness  of  the  Holy  One, 

To   wake  our  worship  and  our  pride  to  fret, 
Who  say  there  is  no  new  thing  under  sun. 

For  if  there  be  no  new  thing,  still  there  is 
How  much  of  old  unconquered  yet  to  learn  ! 

Our  boasted  wisdom — what  a  failure  'tis, 

Which  proves  not  whence  the  heavens  so  blush- 
ing burn ! 


GOLD    WORSHIP 


A    CHRONICLE   OF    REALMAH. 


HEN  the  old  Earth,  changing  still, 
Was  so  young  that  yonder  hill 
Which  appears  to  us  primeval, 
Was  not  thought  of  for  upheaval 
By  the  force  pervading  all, 
Throve  a  now  sub-aqueous  city,  which  Abibah  men 
did  call. 


There  they  worshiped,  even  then 
With  a  worship  that  again 

And  again  has  found  renewal, 
Many  gods,  some  kind,  some  cruel :  — 
These  strange  gods  of  divers  claims 
Won  the  service  of   the   people  who   bowed   down 
with  divers  aims. 

20S 


GOLD    WORSHIP.  20Q 

One  there  was  among  the  Blest, 
So  uplifted  o'er  the  rest, 

That  he  suffered  no  beguilement 
To  atone  for  sin's  defilement. 
He  so  sacred  was  enshrined  — 
On  such  heights  —  that  but  to  name  him,  few  were 
holily  inclined. 

And  so  little  wise  were  they, 
That  the  goddess  holding  sway 
Over  love — Blastessa  Koolie  — 
With  a  power  for  blessing  truly, 
Scarcely  heard  an  Ave  said : 
While    unnumbered  the  devotions    unto    Koomrah- 
Kamah  paid. 

Mammon  was  he,  be  it  known ; 
The  same  god  that  many  own 
Bowing  unto  him  sincerely; 
Thinking  not  they  pay  too  dearly 
Trampling  out  diviner  things, 
If  a  harvest  they  but  gather  of  the  substance  that 
he    brings. 


2IO  GOLD    WORSHIP. 

Naively,  too,  the  legend  tells 
That  this  "  heaper  up  of  shells  " 
(Which  is  literal  translation 
Of  the  god's  name  and  vocation) 
Was  of  all  besought  the    most 
By  these  pagans  for  the  favors  that  they  craved  at 
any  cost. 

Pagans  !     Yes  ;  we've  writ  our  rhyme 
Just  because  there  seems  to  chime 
With  such  heathenish  unreason, 
A  like  worship  in  this  season  — 
When,  if  truth  it  be  we're  told, 
Health    and   happiness   and   honor,    all   are    sacri- 
ficed for  gold ! 


A    NUPTIAL    SONNET. 


[jfp^jEAR  artist-friend,  'tis  meet  the  rounded  year, 
lljsyi  With  fluctuant  wealth  of  color,  should  bring 
all 

To  grace  your  daughter's  spousals ;  meet  ye  call 
Spring,   Summer,  Autumn,  Winter  to  appear, 
And  circle  as  blithe  maidens  one  so  dear :  — 

Fresh  apple-bloom,  whose  sweets  in  showers  fall; 

Pure,   pink  June  roses,  fragrant  to  enthrall ; 
October's  flame  ;  and  Winter's  holly-cheer !  — 
True  symbols  they,  while  answering  Love's  behest, 

And  yielding  service  to  the  bride  so  fair, 
Of  what  to  the  Creator's  work  —  His  best  — 

He  bade  to  perfect  it :  each  season's  care, 
That  so  the  favored  spirit,  tended,  blest, 

May  lack  no  jewel  in  its  crown  to  wear! 

Brooklyn. 


THE    FOUNTAIN    OF    LOURDES 


N  Charlemagne's  beautiful  Gaul, 
Where  the  mountains  make  love  to  the  sea 


Where  they  rise  as  the  sentinel  wall 

'Twixt  Navarre  and  les  Haictes- Pyrenees  — 

Lies  a  valley  by  green  hills  embraced : 
A  valley  whose  peace  is  assured, 

So  remote  it  is  ;  quiet,  and  graced 
By  the  picturesque  village  of  Lourdes. 


Famed  far  is  the  village  and  near ; 

And  pilgrims  flock  thither  today, 
As  erst  they  have  done  year  on  year, 

(For  a  score  at  least)  faring  that  way 
To  lay  down  some  burden  of  ill 

That  the  body  is  heir  to  ;   all  cured, 
If  the  chronicle  found  there  reveal 

Only  truth  of  the  fountain  of  Lourdes. 


THE    FOUNTAIN    OF    LOURDES.  213 

The  charm  of  the  magical  spot 

Grew  out  of  a  vision,  it  seems, 
That  came  to  a  child  —  Bernadotte: 

The  Virgin  appeared  in  his  dreams  — 
Yes,  his  dreams — and  thereupon  gushed, 

By  the  power  of  her  virtue  adjured, 
The  miracle-water  that  rushed 

For  the  balm  of  believers  at  Lonrdes. 


This  legend  of  France  has  sufficed 

Not  a  few  of  the  faithful.     Yet,~lo! 
The  wiser  —  by  vision  of  Christ 

In  the  likeness  of  babyhood  —  go 
To  the  fount  whence  true  healing  springs  forth ; 

Love  crowning  the  life  thus  ensured : 
Oh,  the  old  Christmas-story  is  worth 

A  thousand  of  legends  of  Lourdes  / 


Still,  all  the  old  stories  are  sweet, 
That  teach  us  our  evils  to  lave 

In  mystical  waters,  that  meet 

The  need  of  the  good  which  we  crave. 


214  A    TRUISM. 

But  the  one  that  is  sweetest  and  best 
Is  of  Bethlehem  :  told,  half  obscured 

In  the  others ;   ay,  told  with  the  rest 
In  the  tale  of  the  fountain  of  Lourdes. 


A    TRUISM 


OF    DOUGLAS    JERROLD. 


MAN  is  only  as  old  as  he  feels." 
Truly,  'tis  truth ! 
Whatever  gray  Time  with  his  sickle  steals, 

He  cannot  steal  youth 
From  one  whose  heart  and  whose  hand  obey 
The  exultant  strength  of  their  primal  day. 


:  : 


H 

*A  man  es  ©mEx  as  did  as  fee 
"J:-.    :.!.;-    :■:::  :  -     — 


',     -.-      :.t^"_:      .11.:. 


BH  - 


:  :    "  _ 


Vjl   -:   "_iii    :  "  -'--    '.'-   lit:    :  : :  - 


V" 


2l6  GONE. 

The  love  she  reflected  yet  shineth, 

To  gladden  our  shadowy  ways, 
Though  clashed  is  the  beautiful  crystal 

That  gathered  and  scattered  the  rays. 
O,  clear  was  the  crystal  and  polished, 

And  clearly  the  love-light  passed  through 
The  Light  that  forever  is  shining, 

The  darkness  of  night  to  subdue. 


The  dew  of  the  morning,  translucent, 

Was  scarce  more  transparent  than  she, 
Who  freely  gave  others  the  water 

Of  life  that  to  her  was  so  free  : 
She  held  it  in  cup  of  the  lily ; 

She  held  it  in  cup  of  the  rose  ; 
And  gave  without  stint  to  the  thirsting, 

Like  any  sweet  blossom  that  grows  ; 


Like  any  fair  blossom  that  lifteth 
Its  chalice  for  human  delight; 

And  poureth,  for  comfort,  its  fragrance 
Far  into  the  dusk  of  the  night; 


GONE.  2  17 


Like  any  fair  blossom  that  praiseth 
The  Maker  in  glory  of  bloom ; 

And  praiseth  him  still  in  the  attar 
That  cannot  be  buried  in  sdoom. 


Yet,  gone  is  the  pride  of  her  circle  :  — 

A  woman  whose  spirit  was  rife 
As  a  bird's,  with  the  rhythm  of  singing ; 

Gone,  gone  is  a  charm  from  the  life 
Of  all  who  have  known  her  and  loved  her ; 

Yes,  gone  is  her  beauty  and  grace, 
But  her  pure  faith,  so  child-like,  abideth, 

To  brighten  her  sorrowful  place. 

Philadelphia. 


[The  wife  of  General  C ,  U.  S.  A.,  was  a  woman  of 

rare  beauty  of  person,  of  remarkable  simplicity  of  faith  and 
character,  and  withal  a  charming  improvisatrice.] 


THE    WISDOM    OF    SORROW 


HEN  love's  presence  was  the  guerdon 
Sure  to  crown  the  day-task  done  ; 
When  the  air  grew  soft  and  sweet 
Quickened  by  love's  coming  feet ; 
When  but  tenderest  hint  of  sorrow 
Lay  in  doubting  if  tomorrow 
Jealous,  might  hold  back  love's  hand, 
Then  I  did  not  understand 
How  could  fall  a  hopeless  burden 
On  the  breast  of  any  one, 
Underneath  God's  sun. 


n. 


Once  I  taught  heroic  lesson 

(Ah,  so  little  teachers  know) 
Unto  them,  with  brooding  air, 
Who  seemed  yielding  to  despair; 
218 


THE    WISDOM    OF    SORROW.  219 

And  I  chided  them  for  sadness 
That  o'erlooked  life's  dower  of  gladness ; 
But  I  did  not  understand 
How  the  loosing  of  a  hand, 
Like  the  unstrung  note  we  press  on, 

Out  of  which  rude  discords  grow, 

May  turn  joy  to  woe. 


in. 


Now,  I  feel  pain's  presence  keenly, 
(Teacher  taught  at  last  to  know) 
Since  no  more  my  ear  may  greet 
The  rhythm  of  two  coming  feet; 
Since  no  more  the  night  advances 
Luminous  with  looked-for  glances ; 
Since  I  may  not  clasp  love's  hand, 
Now,  indeed,  I  understand 
How  one  may  not  meet  serenely, 

Common  things  which  lack  the  glow 
Rounded  hopes  bestow. 


2  20  THE    FROZEN    CREW. 


IV. 


Now,  I  kneel  in  deep  contrition 
Low,  before  the  weeping  host 
Of  earth's  mourners  who  make  moan 
Begging  grace  in  minor  tone 
For  a  sympathy  withholden  ! 
—  Still  afloat  in  ether  golden, 
Joy  beside  us  hand  in  hand, 
How  should  we  yet  understand 
Sorrow  of  late  recognition, 

Only  learned  at  bitter  cost 
Of  heart-treasure  lost? 


THE    FROZEN    CREW 


EAR  by  the  light-house,  whose  lamp  is  lit 
By  a  brand  from  the  sun  which  is  firing  it, 


Doubling  the  gleams  from  the  west  that  quiver, 
A  crystal  ship  lies  out  on  the  river. 


THE    FROZEN    CREW.  22  1 

Frost-woven  sheets  to  the  wind  are  furled ; 
Frost-bound  the  streamer  on  topmast  curled; 

Reef-band  and  mainsail  are  frozen  stark  — 
A  shimmering  specter,  the  glassy  bark ! 

Crisp  cordage  of  ice  was  spun  last   night 

By  the  breath  of  the  storm  in  its  mystic  might ; 

Chill  was  the  touch  that  chilled  the  men, 
Who  strove  to  lower  the  sails  again ; 

But  it  conquered  them  all  in  its  silver  snare, 
And  fashioned  a  shroud  for  the  bravest  there  ! 

Only  a  day,  from  the  harbor-bar 

Had  the  canvas  filled  for  its  port  afar; 

Only  a  day,  or  breezes  brave 

Had  challenged  the  bark  to  clear  the  wave ; 

Only  a  day  of  quickened  life, 

As  the  air  with  pulses  of  health  was  rife, 

Had  this  ship  with  its  store  of  golden  corn 
Over  the  gladdened  sea  been  borne  ; 


222  THE    FROZEN    CREW. 

When  feathery  flakes  began  to  fall, 

And  the  king  of  the  storm  outspake,  to  call 

To  his  aid  the  help  of  wind  and  sleet  — 
Furies  that  came  on  hurrying  feet, 

And  blinded  the  men,  and  clouded  the    air 
With  a  wonder  that  ever  is  wondrous  fair: 

A  spell  that  a  siren  might  weave  in  hate 
To  lure  her  victim  to  helpless  fate ; 

Yet  never  so  mockingly  cruel  as  when 
One,  the  most  fearless  among  the  men, 

Sprang  to  the  top  with  heart  to  dare, 

And  was  frozen  stiff  to  the  cross-tree  there  ! 

Long  the  battle  with  wind  and  hail ; 
One  by  one  the  stout  hearts  fail ; 

One  by  one  they  are  frost-numbed  all  — 
The  gallant  crew  in  their  icy  thrall! 

Breaks  the  morning  in  smiles  once  more ; 
Turned  is  the  weird  ship  back  to  shore  ; 


THE    FROZEN    CREW.  223 

Slowly  it  ploughs  the  sea-slush  through  — 
The  ghostly  ship  with  its  silent  crew  — 


Till  out  from  the  light-house  succor  comes, 
And  the  men  are  borne  to  sorrowing  homes 


Some  to  yield  to  an  endless  night, 
Blind  to  the  blessing  of  cheerful  light ; 

Some  to  suffer  a  torturing  pain, 

As  the  sealed  life-current  is  loosed  again, 

Or,  to  cry,  in  the  fever  of  struggling  breath, 
To  the  man  aloft  who  is  dumb  with  Death  — 

While  the  mute  ship  lies  a  spectral  sight, 
Clad  in  its  vestments  of  shining  white, 

Unwarmed  by  the  flames  from  the  west  which  dip 
To  kindle  the  hold  of  the  crystal  ship, 

And  halo  the  head  of  the  sleeping  man 
Who  froze  at  his  post  when  the  storm  began. 


TOMORROW 


OMORROW— a  beautiful  day  — 
Is  waiting  for  you  and  for  me ; 
Bluest  skies  of  ethereal  ray 

Are  impatient  the  shadows  to  flee. 
Why  care  if  the  landscape  be  sullen  and  gray  ? 
Tomorrow  will  chase  all  the  cloud-racks  away. 

Tomorrow,  you  say  may  be   dull 

With  the  leaden-hued  face  of  today. 
There's  a  morrow  whose  measure  is  full 
Of  joy  never  spilled  by  delay ! 
If  today  born  of  yesterday  baffle  our  will, 
Tomorrow,  tomorrow  is  radiant  still. 

Tomorrow  is  mantled  in  white, 

As  pure  as  the  soft  falling  snow 
That  rounds  into  waves  of  delight 
To  cover  earth's  pitiful  woe. 
The  gale  may  be  sighing,  the  frost-king  astray, 
Tomorrow  will  sparkle  in  crystalline  spray. 


TOMORROW.  2  2 

Tomorrow  with  roses  is  crowned, 

A  tender  eyed  sylph  o'  the  May, 

Flinging  garlands  of  blossoms  around 

In  a  child-like,  improvident  way. 

Today  may  be  barren,  a  chill  in  the  air ; 

Tomorrow,  sweet  spring-life  will  bud  everywhere. 

Tomorrow,  the  birds  without  fear 

Flitting  back  to  the  woodlands  again, 
Will  sing  for  the  summer  that's  here, 
A  full-throated,  ravishing  strain. 
The  world  now  so  silent  of  bird  or  of  bee, 
Tomorrow  shall  echo  with  refluent  glee. 

Tomorrow  the  babe  of  the  field 

From  its  silk-curtained  cradle  shall  rise  ; 
And  spurning  the  harvest-queen's  shield, 
Fill  the  air  with  a  golden  surprise. 
The  seed  may  be  brown  in  the  cell  of  today 
Yet  vestured  tomorrow  in  royal  array. 

Tomorrow  is  regal  for  all, 
With  a  scepter  of  love  in  her  hand  : 


226  CICADA-SONG. 

The  weary  but  wait  for  her  call 
To  rest  in  the  full  fruited  land. 
O'er  the  span  of  today  we  may  tearfully  grope, 
But  the  arch  of  tomorrow  is  glowing  with  hope. 

Yes,  tomorrow,  a  beautiful  day, 

Is  waiting  for  you  and  for  me  — 
Impatient  our  grief  to  allay, 

Our  sorrow-weighed  pinions  to  free. 
Why  reck  we  the  burden  that  presses  today? 
Tomorrow,  tomorrow  will  lift  it  away. 


CICADA-SONG. 


EEMETH  the  chorus  that  greets  the  ear 
A  dirge  for  the  dying  hours, 
That  wake  no  more  for  the  passing  year, 

Spring's  voices  of  birds  and  flowers  ? 
Or,  is  it  a  psalm  of  love  upborne 
From  this  grateful  earth  of  ours  ? 


CICADA-SONG.  227 

Unfold  us  the  burden  of  your  song, 

Grasshoppers,  chirping  so 
Tender  and  sweet  the  whole  day  long ! 

Is  it  of  joy  or  woe 
The  music  that  breathes  from  each  blade  of  grass 

In  undertone  deep  and  low? 

Vainly  I  list  for  a  jarring  tone, 

All  is  so  blest  to  me  — 
From  the  cricket  that  answers  beneath  the  stone 

The  brown  toad  hid  in  the  tree, 
To  the  tiniest  insect  of  them  all 

That  helps  with  the  harmony. 

Never  a  pause  in  the  serenade! 

Like  the  glory  of  ripened  corn 
It  filleth  the  air  through  the  sun  and  shade  ; 

While  from  dusk  till  the  peep  of  morn 
Is  a  rhythmical  pulse  in  the  dreamful  night 

That  of  satisfied  life  seems  born. 

As  the  balm  of  the  hay-field  about  us  floats, 
So,  melody  crowneth  the   haze 


228  OCTOBER. 

Of  the  yellow  ether  with  choral  notes 
Through  these  tuneful  autumn  days. 

Speak !  sphinx  of  the  hearth-stone,  cricket,  dear 
Is  the  song  of  sorrow  or  praise  ? 

Of  this  I  am  sure,  that  you  bring  to  me 
Thoughts,  the  sweetest  of  any  I  know; 

Of  this  I  am  sure,  that  you  sing  to  me 
In  tones  that  are  tenderly  low, 

Of  things  the  dearest  that  life  has  brought. 
And  dearest  that  hopes  bestow. 


OCTOBER. 


jpHAT  joy  is  this  which  thrills  us 

With  unspeakable  delight  ? 
What  benison  which  fills  us 

To  forgetful ness  of  pain  ? 
What    stimulus    is    nerving    us    to    battle    tor   the 

right, 


OCTOBER.  229 

As    when    in    hopeful    spring-time    we    tracked    its 

beacon  light  ? 
Whence  do  our  wasted  energies  a  new-born   force 

attain  ? 
October,  stepping  cheerily  through  woodland,  field 

and  fen, 
Is    ruling    with    a    royal    right   the    willing   world 

again ! 


What  though  November's  sleeping  breath 

May  stir  the  quick'ning  gale  — 
What  though  a  whisp'ring  North  wind  saith, 
"Your  streams  I  will  enchain"  — 

What  though  some  far-off  tufts  of  snow  may  chill- 
ing life  exhale  — 

While    warmth    of   living   color  with    radiance    fills 
the  vale, 

We  dare  not    by  prophetic  woe    our  heritage    pro- 
fane ; 

But  yield   to   glad   October  who   smiles   from   hill 
and  glen, 

Crowned    with     a     gay    Bacchante's     crown,     and 
throned  for  us  again  ! 


230  OCTOBER. 

Why  call  these  "  melancholy  days, 

The  saddest  of  the  year?" 
Why  sing  in  minor  tones  of  praise 

For  autumn  a  refrain? 
Who,  disenthralled   from    summer,    with   wan    face 

loitering  near, 
But  triumphs  in  his  blest  release,  his   joyance    all 

sincere  ; 
And  springs  with  breast  unburdened  on  the  richly 

loaded  wain 
Of  her  who  wields  the  golden-rod    and    sways    the 

hearts  of  men, 
Wreathed  in  iridian  splendor  —  magnificent  again? 

Her  gracious  hand  extended, 

She  bids  us  cease  from  care, 
And  feast,  love's  labor  ended, 

On  golden-dropping  grain. 
Our  souls   have    but   to    open  wide    to   charms    so 

debonair, 
And  drink   the    ruddy  wine    of   life   from   lips   'tis 

ours  to  share ; 
Ay,  revel  in  the  joyousness  of  glowing  mount  and 

plain 


nature's  nun.  231 

Aflame  with  bright  October's  smile  —  brighter  and 

dearer  when, 
Turning  her  crimson  cheek  to  go,  the  pale  months 

come  again. 


NATURE'S    NUN. 


HE  priestly  trees  with  crowns  all  bare, 
Attend  the  pale  year's  vows, 
And  sternly  stand  while  deep  in  prayer 
The  maiden  humbly  bows. 

Her  fadeless  charm  is  hid  within 

A  garb  of  common  gray : 
Each  glowing  color,  like  a  sin, 

Laid  ruthlessly  away. 

Oh,  strange  the  power  that  blights  the  sun 

Soft  resting  in  her  hair  — 
That  clips  the  tresses  one  by  one, 

And  buries  aught  so  fair! 


232  nature's  nun. 

Meek,  shorn  and  quiet  is  she  now, 
Who  erst,  by  song  and  smile 

And  glory  of  a  sunny  brow, 
Could  all  the  world  beguile. 

Yet  rues  she  not  her  vanished  sway 
O'er  pleasure  born  to  die, 

Who  finds  at  last  an  open  way 
To  treasure  of  the  sky. 

The  leafy  shade  of  June's  delight 
No  longer  looms  to  screen 

November's  broad  expanse  of  night 
Where  unmasked  stars  are  seen. 

Slight,  interlacing  threads  of  brown, 

Alone  are  waving  set 
Athwart  the  love-light  streaming  down 

A  scarcely  hindering  net  — 

Between  whose  wind-blown  traceries 
Her  vision  searches  space  ; 

And  wins  for  missing  images 
A  far  diviner  grace. 


LOVE  S    UNIVERSALITY.  233 

Her  ashen  gown  that  bleak  winds  stir, 

Her  closely  fastened  cross, 
With  their  pure  promise  seem  to  her 

More  rich  than  richest  loss. 

Hence  unto  infinite  hope  upsprings 

Her  freed  soul  wise  and  calm, 
From  earth-born  trammels,  while  she  sings 

A  new  thanksgiving  psalm. 


LOVERS    UNIVERSALITY. 


ITH  statelier  splendor  than  a  monarch  shows 
Who  spreads  his  purple  of  magnificence 
To  awe  the  city  into  reverence, 
The  setting  sun  on  this  lone  desert  throws 
A  flood  of  light,  in  mingled  gold  and  rose, 
As  lavish  as  if  here  from  crowds  immense 
Should  rise  acclaiming  voice  of  frankincense 
Stirred  by  the  grandeur  that  such  grace  bestows. 


234  SNOW-CLAD. 

Yet  richer  blessings  with  as  generous  hand, 

Impartial,  from  God's  hand  are  borne  adown  — 

Borne  far  to  meet  the  loneliest  in  the  land : 
Look  but  beneath  the  cruel-seeming  frown, 

And  see  how  love-light  glistens  in  the  sand, 
Where    ravening    seas    had    threatened    all    to 
drown ! 


SNOW-CLAD. 

(GRACE  CHURCH,   BROOKLYN.) 


ON  templed  pile  in  calm  repose 
Is  robed  as  though  for  endless  rest 
As  though  a  saint  at  vesper's  close 
Should  fold  his  hands  divinely  blest ; 

Or,  fain  to  serve  his  master  yet, 

Should  silent  paint  a  pictured  prayer 

Of  ivied  stone  in  frost-work  set, 
Illumined  by  minutest  care. 


SNOW-CLAD.  235 

More  fair  in  that  each  broidering  tree, 
O'erburdened  like  a  tear-filled  eye, 

Is  mantled  with  the  mystery 
Of  fallen  stars  that  in  them  lie. 

Swift,  flake  on  flake,  new  load  is  laid 
Of  crowning  pressure  on  the  stems ; 

And  still  the  woven  film  is  made 
To  hold  anew  increasing  gems. 

The  whole  gray  world  whose  differing  grays 
Shade  tenderly  from  brown  to  white, 

Transfigured  is  within  the  maze 
Of  snows  that  yield  supernal  light. 

Still,  nothing  seems  so  clothed  with  grace 

So  holy  in  its  hoary  screen, 
As  yonder  quiet,  spire-topped  place, 

Fresh  yesterday  with  living  green ; 

And  vocal  with  the  twitterings 

Or  myriad  sparrows  —  songs  or  sighs 

Responsive  to  impatient  wings  — 
All  mute  today  in  hushed  surprise. 


236  SNOW-CLAD. 

The  pictured  windows,  too,  that  then 
In  color  chanted  to  the  sun, 

Are  neutral  tinted  now,  as  when 

The  twilight  melts  their  hues  in  one. 

Such  breathless,  hallowed  ministry 
Attends  the  tranquil,  wintry  hour, 

It  scarce  were  marvelous  to  see 

The  pile  upborne  by  mystic  power; 

Or  angels  hear  —  like  those  we  meet, 

Who  closely  drift  to  heaven's  shore - 
Saying  in  accents  low  and  sweet, 
"Behold  the  pure  who  rest  or  soar!" 


THE    CUP    OF    WATER. 

"And  they  filled  a  sponge  with  vinegar,  and  put  it   upon 
hyssop,  and  put  it  to  his  mouth."  —  John  xix  :  2Q. 


ATER ! "  Yes,  give  me  of  water,  fresh  water 
to  drink  ; 

For  I  am  athirst  and  aweary,  ah!  wearily  dying; 
And  here  on  this  bed  of  discomfort  where  long 
I've  been  lying, 
So  famished  and    parched  and   unrestful,  I  cannot 

but  think : 
Oh!    had  they  but   given    the    Saviour  fresh  water 
to  drink, 
When    he    in    his    agony,  too,  was    aweary    and 
dying ! 


One  day  in  far    Sychar,  he    sat   on  the  curb  of    a 
well, 
And   of    a    Samarian    woman    asked    simply   the 
favor. 


238  THE    CUP    OF    WATER. 

She   parleyed;   while   more   than  she  knew,  was 
the  draught  that  he  gave  her, 
Of  wisdom  —  his  knowledge  her  wonder  did  surely 

compel  — 
Whoever,  spake  he,  will  drink  of  the  water  of  my 
living  well 
Shall    nevermore    thirst !     Why   showered   he    so 
lavish  his  favor? 

To  him  she  gave  nothing.     'Twas  Christ  who  gave 
freely  to  her. 
(Oh,  had  one   but   given    him  water  to    help  his 

last  anguish  ! 
How   could    they   have  seen   him,  the    helper  of 
others,  so  languish, 
And  to  give  him  a  cup  of  cool  water  one  moment 

demur  ?) 
Did   he  ask  me?     And  did   I,  too,  parley  on  level 
with  her, 
Not  giving  him  comfort?    Ah,  me!  then  deserve 
I  this  anguish ! 

"  Be  peaceful,  my  child,  let  not    questions    disturb 
thee  in  vain  ;  "  — 


IN    GETHSEMANE.  239 

It  seemed  that  the   voice    which   we   heard   was 

the  voice  of  the  Saviour  — 
"  Thou  need'st    not   to   doubt    so,    poor    suff'rer, 
thy  Christian  behavior, 
Whose  hand  has  been  always  alert  for  the  healing 

of  pain ; 
Not    one    of    thy    ministries    ever    was    offered    in 
vain  — 
'  Inasmuch    as    thou    gav'st    to   the    least,  gav'st 
thou  to  the  Saviour ! '  " 


IN    GETHSEMANE. 
Sleep  now,  and  take  your  rest." —  Mark  xiv :  41 


RAW  close,  sweet  shadows,  fold  us  from  the 
light; 

We're  weary,  very  weary,  let  us  sleep  — 
Weary  of  trying  watch  and  ward  to  keep  — 
Weary  of  day  and  glad  that  it  is  night : 


240  THE    NEW    BIRTH. 

So  glad  the  conflict  between  wrong  and  right 
Has  respite,   and  forgetful  we  may  reap 
The  calm  of  soothing  slumber,  dreamful,  deep  — 

Draw  close,  sweet  shadows,  fold  us  from  the  light. 

Sleep  now,  if  sleep  you  must,  and  take  your  rest; 

The  sun  will  hold  his  orbit  still  the  same, 
And,  pressing  through  night's  curtains  that  protest, 

Will  startle  your  slow  eyelids  with  his  flame, 
Till  you  shall  wake  to  know  the  Day  is  best : 

Its  joy  your  portion  through  My  finished  shame. 


THE    NEW     BIRTH. 


OMPLETE  in  Christ"  — and  can  it  be, 
That  quite  apart  from  human  worth, 


Simply  by  coming,  Lord,  to  thee, 

We  know  the  bliss  of  heavenly  birth  ? 


THE    NEW    BIRTH.  24.I 

"Complete  in  Christ" — the  words  ring  out 
With  strange,  sweet  music,  when  we  see 

They  mean  Christ's  beauty  wrapped  about 
The  erring  soul  mysteriously ; 

That  His  warm,  penetrating  smile 
Melts,  all  unseen,  the  rime  of  sin  : 

The  sunshine  only  screened  awhile 
Of  love-transmuted  life  within  — 

Now  pure  in  perfectness ;  as  though 
No  mark  were  there  of  any  blight  — 

Not  one  stained  memory  left  to  show 
Its  shadow  in  the  primal  light. 

"  Complete  in  Christ "  —  the  words  have  grown 
To  untold  cadence  when  we  dare 

To  claim  Christ's  merit  as  our  own : 

Our  own  through  child-like  faith  and  prayer. 


A     TRUE    LIFE. 


ROCK  of  softened  beauty  stands  serenely 
Among  the  hills  that  rise  above  the  shore 
And  upward  lifts  luxuriant  foliage  greenly, 

Of  nature's  fadeless  store  ; 
Turning  no  pallor  to  the  'threatening  blast, 
Nor  blooming  richer  that  the  storm  is  past ; 

But  brave  alike  beneath  the  sunny  sparkles 
Of  smiling  day  that  tips  with  gold  each  crest, 

Or,  when  a  cold,  gray  cloud  of  winter  darkles 
Its  outlook  to  the  west ; 

Ever,  spice-laden,  planted  firm  and  still, 

Unmoved  to  break  with  the  Eternal  Will. 

So,  even  as  in  this  laurelled  rock,  whose  glory 
It  is  to  look  aloft  with  steadfast  brow, 

I  read,  strong  soul,  within  thy  life  the  story 
Of  faith  no  storm  can  bow  ; 

Nor  soft  and  liquid  wooings  turn  aside 

From  truth,  on  which  thy  patient  feet  abide. 


FILMS.  243 

And  if  the  stone  beneath  the  verdure  seemeth 
To  fret  the  wave,  which  cannot  but  caress  — 

The  wave  which  fonder  growing,  idly  dreameth 
The  rock  may  some  day  bless, 

By  bending  low  a  kingly  crown  to  heed 

The  homage  which  is  but  its  royal  meed  — 

Be  sure,  brave  heart,  a  blessedness  unfailing, 
The  sea  knows  in  the  rock's  resisting  grace, 

Diviner  far  than  if  her  song  availing 
'Twere  lured  from  its  high  place, 

To  lose  in  mists  below  a  heavenward  view, 

Nor  longer  stand,  as  thou,  divinely  true. 


FILMS 


OFT  is  the  film  between  the  vale  and  hill, 
Shrouding  the  winter's  frost  from  summer's 
glow  — 
The  subtile  mist  that  golden  days  distil 

When  summer's  footstep  lingers  loath  to  go : 


244  A    SONNET. 

Yes,  soft  and  tender  is  the  purple  haze 

That  veils  the  mountain  from  the  valley's  gaze. 

And  tender  is  the  film  that  holds  the  view 
Of  coming  fortune  from  the  fearless  eye, 

Else  would  the  distant  upland's  checkered  hue 
Bring  disenchantment  to  the  lowlands  nigh : 

Yes,  very  tender  is  the  mystic  line 

That  hides  tomorrow  in  a  fold  divine. 


A    SONNET 

TO   THE   SONNET    MAKER. 


O  couch  of  roses  (yielding  sweets  exprest 
Of  endless  summer),  with  blue  canopy 
Wrought  of  the  whole  wide  heaven's  immensity, 
And  starred  with  stars  from  boundless  east  to  west, 
Is  that  on  which  the  sonneteer  may  rest ! 
If  cradled  so,  with  fancy's  pinions  free 
To  breathe  unstrained  the  breath  of  poesie, 
Soft  were  his  stages  to  life's  laurelled  crest. 


VASA    MARCH.  245 

Mark,  now,  what  liberty  doth  him  await, 

In  whom  the  sonnet's   rule  has  preference   bred 
To  find  repose  in  so  constrained  estate  : 


Parnassian  meads  his  muse's  feet  may  tread, 
And  he  be  borne  by  them  to  beauty's  gate  — 
But,  bound  a  prisoner  on  Procrustean  bed ! 


VASA    MARCH. 


FROM    THE    SWEDISH    OF   Z.    TOPELIUS. 


N  northern  frost  our  cradle  stood, 
By  frothing  stream  and  shuddering  flood ; 


Yet  grew  we  there  'mid  ice  and  storm. 


246  VASA    MARCH. 

As  sturdy  pines  that  snow-drifts  warm- 

The  pines  that  grow 

Beneath  the  snow, 

And  crowned  with  green 

Stand  up  serene, 
To  smile  above  the  wintry  scene  ; 

And  crowned  with  green 

Stand  up  serene, 
To  smile  above  the  wintry  scene. 


11. 


A  thousand  waves  together  meet, 
Where  Finnish  homes  their  coming  greet; 
And  Finland's  sons  like  waves  embrace, 
O,  parent-land,  within  thy  grace. 

With  joy  they  bear 

Thy  crest  in  air ; 

Full  blest  to  be 

A  help  to  thee, 
Whom  Vasa  served  as  none  but  he  : 

Full  blest  to  be 

A  help  to  thee, 
Whom  Vasa  served  as  none  but  he. 


THE    ARMY    OF    SPRING.  247 


III. 


Our  brave  North-land  !     Our  Fatherland  ! 
On  rock-bound  shores  thy  children  stand ; 
Oh !  teach  us  so  thy  strength  to  be, 
As  thou  art  strong  to  break  the  sea ! 

Made  steadfast  thus, 

Grow,  thou,  in  us ; 

While  we  with  hand 

And  heart  withstand 
All  foes  of  our  dear  Finnish  land ! 

While  we  with  hand 

And  heart  withstand 
All  foes  of  our  dear  Finnish  land ! 


THE    ARMY    OF    SPRING. 


ENS  of  thousands  and  ten  times  ten, 
Clad  in  yellow  and  purple  and  pink  — 
Little  folks  marching  like  stalwart  men 
Up  from  the  dark  to  the  summer's  brink  ! 


248  THE    ARMY    OF    SPRING. 

Yet  can  it  be  dark  where  such  robes  are  made  • 
Surely  the  looms  in  the  light  must  be 

That  colored  these  uniforms  shade  by  shade, 
And  fashioned  the  rare  embroidery ! 

Wherefore  the  rising  —  can  any  one  say  — 
Of  hosts  that  rush  from  the  realm  of  night, 

Letting  no  hindrances  bar  the  way, 
Bursting  upon  us  with  joy  bedight  ? 

Tens  of  thousands  and  ten  times  ten, 
Vested  in  violet,  blue  and  gold  — 

Little  folks  marching  like  stalwart  men 
Up  through  the  winter's  rime  and  mold. 

Come  they  to  tell  us  that  down  below, 
There  where  the  baby  lies  hid  in  flowers, 

Down  in  the  hollow,  under  the  snow, 

Is  a  brighter  world  than  this  world  of  ours  ? 

Tens  of  thousands  and  ten  times  ten, 
Gay  in  scarlet  and  green  and  white  — 

Little  folks  marching  like  stalwart  men, 
Muster  before  us  a  princely  sight : 


CHILD    LIFE.  249 

Gonfalons  floating  and  flags  out-spreaa, 
Lily  bells  ringing  and  censers  swung, 

Bonneted,  plumed,  and  with  slippered  tread, 
The  sweetest  cavalcade  ever  sung  ! 

What  is  their  mission  ?     Which  of  us  knows, 
Save  that  they  bless  us  and  pass  away. 

Destined  to  scatter  the  seed  that  grows 
And  blooms  in  battalions  here  today? 


CHILD    LIFE 


TO    M.  h.  O. 


Y  precious,    sweet    darling,  with  wonder-wide 
eyes, 

Has  stept  from  the  room  for  a  minute ; 
Yet  still  all  around  me  unconsciously  lies 
The  print  of  her  presence  within  it. 


250  CHILD    LIFE. 

Soft  pillowed  to  rest  near  a  lesson's  loose  page, 

And  folded  the  bed-linen  under, 
Is  Dolly,  her  darling !    At  what  given  age 

Do  girls  outgrow  Doll-dom,  I  wonder  ? 

Or  women,  I  might  say,  since  fondly  I  gaze 

In  a  mood  that  is  almost  maternal 
On  the  patient-faced  manikin,  thinking  of  days 

Like  my  daughter's,  delightsomely  vernal ; 

When  a  doll  of  my  own  had  a  sweet  human  way, 

A  sort  of  expressicn  that  blesses ; 
When  I  cared  for  her  comfort  by  night  and  by  day, 

And  fancied  she  answered  caresses. 

It  is  sympathy  speaks  for  my  twelve  summer's  old 

Little  girl,  in  her  loyal  affection, 
Which  she  holds  half  in  secret ;  half  fears  to  unfold, 

Lest  a  smile  might  ensue  on  detection. 

But  wherefore  a  smile,  if  her  school-hours  between 
She  but  changes  one  joy  for  another; 

And  back  into  Elf-land  again  is  a  queen 
Of  the  realm  —  and  a  right  royal  mother? 


CHILD   LIFE.  251 

Too  soon  will  the  fancies  of  fairy-land  fade ; 

Too  soon  it  is  robbed  of  its  splendor; 
Too  soon,  I  am  sure,  are  the  little  ones  made 

Their  kingdom  of  youth  to  surrender. 

Too  soon  is  dear  Santa  Claus  put  to  the  blush, 
And  his  agents  reduced  to  confusion, 

By  the  lore  of  the  wise-acres  whispering,   "  Hush ! 
You  know  it  is  all  a  delusion." 

Too   soon    do    the    snow-flakes    seem    nothing   but 
snow ; 

But,  ah !    we  are  glad  to  remember, 
That  once  they  were  messengers  sent  here  to  show 

A  near  twenty-fifth  of  December. 

Then,  darling,  my  darling  with  wonder-wide  eyes, 
From  which  the  sweet  mists  are  not  shaken, 

We  will  pray  that  together  we  ever  grow  wise, 
Yet  never  from  dreamland  awaken. 

That  even  though  three-score-and-ten  be  our  years, 
We  may  sail,  without  fear  of  demerit, 

Into  havens  of  fancy,  uplifted  from  tears, 
Which  children  divinely  inherit. 


BRET. 

A  Spanish  truffle-dog,  whose  amateur-performances,  in  the 
Kaatskills,  contributed  over  one  hundred  dollars  to  the 
Tribune  "  Fresh  Air  Fund." 


|W0  brownest  of  eyes,  soft  peering 
Through  a  shock  of  shaggy  hair; 
Two  brownest  of  ears,  down  drooping; 

And  a  tail  (whisked  everywhere) 
Brown,  like  his  curly  jacket, 

At  the  tip  a  white  plume  set, 
And  the  softest  of  snowy  bosoms, 
Has  our  frolicsome,  kindly  Bret. 

But  not  for  his  brave  appearance, 

Though  that  is  unique  indeed, 
Do  we  value  our  foreign  poodle 

Of  notable  ^pattien  breed ; 
'Tis  more  for  his  comprehension, 

And  his  willing  way  and  quick, 
To  learn  and  to  do  at  bidding 

The  oldest  and  newest  trick. 


BRET.  253 

"  Speak  ?  "    Yes,  he  speaks  at  asking, 

In  loud  or  in  lower  key; 
Walks,  on  his  hind  feet  jumping, 

As  cunningly  as  can  be ; 
Plays  dead,  while  nothing  will  rouse  him, 

Though  you  shake  him  and  tease  and  coax. 
Till  one  shouts  "The  police  are  coming!" 

When  he's  up,  and  enjoys  the  hoax. 


He  begs,  and  he  catches  biscuit 

On  the  bridge  of  his  nostrils  laid ; 
Sits,  pipe  in  mouth,  with  a  cap  on. 

Like  an  old  judge  grave  and  staid ; 
Finds,  with  the  truest  instinct, 

What  is  hidden  in  "hide  and  seek; 
Steals  handkerchiefs  "for  a  living" 

From  pockets  whereout  they  peek. 


Charles  Reade  named  a  dog  once  Tonic 
A  compound  of  steal,  bark,  whine ; 

But  Bret,  you  see,  is  an  actor, 
And  judged  on  a  higher  line. 


254  THE    LANGUAGE    OF    BIRDS. 

Besides,  he's  more  than  a  tonic, 
In  the  sense  of  the  novelist's  wit : 

He's  a  genuine,  jolly  companion, 
Full  of  gayety,  "go,"  and  grit. 

But  rhyme  is  slow  in  rehearsal 

Of  the  varied  things  he  will  do : 
He  bounds  through  a  hoop,  he  dances, 

He  carries  and  fetches  too ; 
In  short,  he's  a  wonderful  creature  — 

A  lion-like,  playful  pety  4 
Only  a  dog,  yet  splendid 

In  his  dogship  is  our  Bret. 


THE    LANGUAGE    OF    BIRDS 


THOUSAND  and  twenty  singing  birds 
Are  chanting  a  matin  song 
To  my  list'ning  heart,  in  the  unknown  words 
That  to  Switzerland's  birds  belong:. 


THE    LANGUAGE    OF    BIRDS.  255 

Yet,  shutting  my  eyes,  I  never  would  know 

If  the  woods  of  this  old-world  land 
Were  other  than  ours,  while  musical  so 

With  a  rapturous  singing  band. 

One  couldn't  imagine  a  foreign  tongue 
Is  sounding  such  clear,  sweet  notes ; 

But  rather  be  sure  that  the  strains  are  sung 
By  our  own  little  songsters'  throats. 

We'd  never  surmise  that  the  meadow-lark 
With  his  wings  to  the  green  fields  set, 

Would  only  give  heed  to  our  voice  and  hark, 
If  we  called  him  an  alouette  / 

That  the  rossignoVs  song  in  the  Switzer's  vale, 

With  its  melody  pure  and  free, 
Would  faint  in  the  speech  of  our  nightingale  ; 

We  wouldn't  believe  it  could  be  ! 

Nor  would  it,  my  dear.     We  are  right  —  we're  right! 

One  language  the  birds  have  —  one  ; 
They  use  it  by  day  and  they  use  it  by  night, 

They  use  it  in  shadow  and  sun : 


256  REMEMBER. 

Tis  the   language  of   lovers  —  the  same,  the  same 

Wherever  its  harmony  grows ; 
The  language  of  music  that  hasn't  a  name 

Save  that  which  the  whole  world  knows. 

So  we'll  listen,  we  two,  with  accustomed  ear, 

To  the  spring  that  is  fully  awake  ; 
And  know  we're  together  —  one  there,  one  here: 

At  home  and  on  Leman's  Lake. 

Geneva,  April  26,  18/8. 


REMEMBER. 


F  within  your  crystal  soul  a  question 
Of  the  color  of  my  passion  vexes, 
If  its  lavish  incense  thrown  around  you 

By  excess  perplexes ; 
Know  no  aureoled  saint  I  hold  above  you 
Remember  that  I  love  you. 


REMEMBER.  257 

If  love's  perfumed  air  expands  in  blessing, 
Only  when  its  open  sweets  surround  you  ; 

If  from  its  pervading  presence  parted, 
Doubtings  may  confound  you ; 

Know  that  never  doubts    of   mine  disprove  you  — 

Remember  that  I  love  you. 

If  your  features  warmed  by  my  caressing 

Glow  with  a  divine  illumination 
But  to  cool  and  fade  in  distance  lonely, 

Stirred  by  no  pulsation  ; 
Know  my  soul  refuses  to  reprove  you  — 
Remember  that  I  love  you. 

If  you  cannot  answer  all  the  fullness 
Of  the  measure  of  my  heart's  devotion, 

If  your  leaning  toward  me  signals  merely 
A  reflected  motion; 

Know  that  even  so  'tis  joy  to  move  you — - 

Remember  that  I  love  you. 

For,  in  this  "  I  love  you "  is  a  meaning 
Far  beyond  the  ken  of  simple  fancy : 


258  THE    LAUREATE    SINGER. 

Measureless  in  love's  enlightened  language 

Love's  significancy ! 
Know,  of  worth  attested,  I  approve  you  — 
Believe  me  that  I  love  you. 


THE    LAUREATE    SINGER. 


ROWNED   is    the    sea   supreme   among   the 

poets  — 
Voicing  unmeasured  thought: 
If  to  it  turn  the  soul  grief-burdened,  lo !  its 

Waves,  with  sadness  fraught, 
Will  sing  with  sobbing,  sympathetic  moan, 
A  murmuring  song  in  sorrow's  monotone, 
Attuned  to  grief  alone. 


THE    LAUREATE   SINGER. 


259 


If   bright   the  hour,  the  soul  with  rapture  thrilling 

Oblivious  to  all  ill, 
The  self-same  ocean  moves  in  glad  fulfilling 

Of  some  mysterious  will, 
That  bids  the  tenderest  notes  to  tremble  there 
Beneath  a  crimpled  veil  —  so  happy,  fair 

The  smile  the  waters  wear! 


Yet  if  the  soul  be  chafed,  its  joy  forsaking 

In  pulses  fierce  and  strong; 
The  hurrying  billows  emulant,  seem  waking 

Grave  echoes,  which  belong 
To  storms,  that  fret  and  foam  in  latent  wrath, 
And  mutter  low  upon  their  surly  path, 

The  voice  that  anger  hath. 

This  singer  never  falters  in  expression 

Of  singer's  subtlest  art; 
But  holds  a  master-key  by  pre-possession 

To  fit  each  throbbing  heart  — 
Whose  ban  the  lashings  of  the  deep  repeat; 
Whose  praise  the  swelling  tide  so  wondrous  sweet, 

Resounds  with  praise  complete. 


260  in  sarony's  studio. 

Man's     mood     may     scale    the    gamut,    grave    or 
tender — 

It  matters  not  —  the  sea 
Responsive  utterance  will  freely  render 

From  its  immensity : 
Its  soundless  depth  no  fetters  know  to  thrall 
The  motions,  rhythmic  and  reciprocal, 

That,  infinite,  answer  all. 


IN    SARONY'S   STUDIO. 


OUR  happiest  expression,  if  you  please, 
I'll   do   the   rest — arrange   these    folds    for 
you. 
Your  eye-lids  you  may  wink — just  so  —  with  ease. 

Now  glance  here  :  that  will  do. 
Once  more. 

Don't  move  !     The  posture  is  all  grace  ; 
That  head-turn  is  a  very  sweet  surprise; 
Yes,  quite  perfection  is  that  fall  of  lace. 
There  —  lift,  a  thought,  your  eyes  !  " 


in  sarony's  studio.  261 

('Tis    done.)       "All   right! — a    vignette    now,    my 
boy"  — 

In  cheery  tones  rings  out  upon  the  air 
Like  to  a  boatswain  calling  "  Ship,  ahoy  !  "  — 

Presto  !  —  the  vignette's  there. 

Hark  !  waves  of  rippling  laughter  from  the  screen  — 
"  Nay,  sirens,  I  can  manage  only  one  ; 

Soon  on  the  card  I'll  paint  your  fairy  queen  ; 
But  leave  us,  pray,  alone  !  " 

"  The  negative  ?  ah,  that  I  never  show, 

Except  in  cases  quite  exceptional. 
I  must  2     Then,  from  a  brood  of  birdlets,   know 

I  honor  'must*  and  'shall.' 

"Aha!  my  little  fellow,  are  you  here, 
To  make  your  pretty  face  a  picture  gay? 

Well,  stand  upon  this  rock,  my  little  dear; 
Fold  arms  —  and  look  this  way." 

"All  right!" 

"  Yes,  madam,  yes,  it  is  all  right ; 
On  Monday  you  can  come  the  proof  to  see." 

"  And  you,  sir  ? 


262  in  sarony's  studio. 

—  What !   you   think   that   proof 
a  fright ! 
Nay,  nay,  it  must  not  be : 

We'll  try  again But  not  today,  sir,  no, 

I'm  mad,  quite  mad  with  all  I  have  to  do  ; 
Morning  and  noon  till  night,  I'm  thronged  just  so ; 
On  Wednesday  come,  at  two." 

"  Oh,  for  blest  rainy  days !     Not  dew  to  flower 
Is  sweeter  than  the  cloud  to  his  parched  brain, 

Who  weds  the  sun  and  soulless  crowds  each  hour 
In  triturating  pain. 

"  In  some  bright  moments  I  am  bade  rejoice, 

When  sympathetic  souls  have  faith  in  me, 
As  when  fair  Kellogg,  with  her  silvery  voice 

Of  rarest  minstrelsy, 
Accepts  my  pose." 

"I  cry,  divine!  divine! 

But  there  are  some  their  will  'gainst  mine  array, 
And  mimicking  fixed  stars,  deign  but  to  shine 

One  resolute,  fixed  way." 

"  Such  make  the  artist  in  me  cry  with  pain 
Over  the  wearisome  and  futile  hour, 


THE    FOOLISH    NUNS.  263 

So  wrought  to  passion  are  the  nerves  which  strain 
To  lift  to  light  each  flower." 

"Yet  still  I  triumph.     As  when  at  command 

Of  Art,  Ristori  felt  the  fire  in  me, 
And  gave  me  Marie  Antoinette,  as  grand 

As  if  a  human  sea 
Of  earnest  hearts  were  pulsing  to  her  spell ! 

Such  moments  are  restoratives  of  ease  — 
But,  pardon  ! 

You  will  come  tomorrow  ?     Well, 

At  ten,  then,  if  you  please." 


THE    FOOLISH    NUNS. 


OT  heard  of  "  the  boy  and  wolf  ?  "     Nor  the 
girl, 

Who  cried  "  Fire ! "  to  her  final  woe  ? 
Then  possibly  not  of  the  nuns'  mad  plot 
At  Capo  San  Martino? 


2^4  THE    FOOLISH   NUNS. 

This  Southern  headland  of  ancient  Gaul 

Stands  out  in  bluest  of  seas, 
And  its  breezes  blow  with  the  sweets  that  flow 

From  tropical-fruited  trees. 

'Twas  ages  back  (in  a  misty  year), 

Some  centuries  —  may  be  ten  — 
That  the  convent  here  nursed  a  brooding  fear 

Of  the  capturing  Saracen. 

So  timid  the  nuns  at  the  Cape  became, 
They  planned  with  their  neighbors  brave, 

If  the  bells  should  ring  with  a  quickened  swing, 
To  fly  to  the  fold  and  save. 

One  night  in  the  winter's  coldest  air, 

These  Narbonensians  heard 
The  bells  ring  out,  and  with  song  and  shout, 

They  were  true  to  their  given  word. 

They   came    from    the    hill,    from    the    plain   they 
came, 

To  Capo  San  Martino  ; 
They  breasted  the  blast  from  a  sea-storm  cast  — 

They  rivaled  the  wind  — when,  lo! 


THE    FOOLISH    NUNS.  265 

In  the  gateway  only  the  nuns  are  found 

Kneeling,  as  each  one  tells 
How   they   thought  to   test,    of    their    friends    the 
best, 

By  ringing  the  convent  bells. 

Alas  !    alas !    for  the  foolish  nuns  — 

Not  long  was  it  ere  the  foe 
Made  the  'larum  ring,  yet  no  answer  bring 

To  Capo  San  Martino. 

The  men  of  the  Narbonensis  heard, 

But  they  laughed,  "  It  is  only  jest ; 
We  will  brave  no  more  either  sea  or  shore, 

Where  the  convent  lies  at  rest." 

So  the  nuns  were  stolen,  the  convent  sacked, 

And  now  but  its  ruins  glow 
In  the  setting  sun,  when  the  day  is  done, 

At  Capo  San  Martino. 


THE    BEGGARS'    FORTUNE 


OME  good  or  ill  —  sad  fate  or  fair, 
To  chill  or  kiss  us  on  our  way  — 
We  have  the  sun,  the  sky,  the  air, 
To  cheer  our  effort  day  on  day : 
We  have  these  royal  blessings  free 
Despite  untoward  destiny. 

When  good  and  ill  the  balance  try, 

We  need  but  smile  and  watch  the  scale, 

Sure  that  the  sun  and  air  and  sky 
To  favoring  turn  it  will  not  fail  — 

That  nature's  ever  generous  boon 

Will  overweigh  a  leaden  noon. 

Yea,  good  or  ill  may  come  and  go, 
With  darkened  face  or  face  of  light, 

Since  sun  and  air  and  sky  will  glow, 
Or  soon  or  late,  serenely  bright; 

And  whether  good  or  ill  befall 

Light,  color,  fragrance  pierces  all. 


THE  MIRROR  OF  STEEL.  267 

O,  'tis  a  precious  art  to  learn, 

(Better  than  alchemist  has  won 
Who  common  things  to  gold  would  turn) 

One's  heart  to  open  to  the  sun 
And  sky  and  air!  That  never  ill 
May  have  a  chance  the  space  to  fill. 


THE    MIRROR    OF    STEEL 


IS  gallant  steed  stands  close  beside, 
Caparisoned  and  gay, 
For  soon  the  knight  to  war  will  ride, 
From  Lady  Blanche  away. 

The  cold,  bright  armor  of  the  time 

Is  girt  about  his  form, 
But  underneath,  with  faith  sublime 

In  love  his  heart  is  warm. 


268  THE  MIRROR  OF  STEEL. 

The  Lady  Blanche  is  lithe  and  fair, 

In  softest  silk  arrayed ; 
While  floating  folds  of  golden  hair 

Make  sunshine  round  the  maid. 

Diviner  meed  to  him  she  seems 
Than  guerdon  best  of  fame ; 

And  o'er  his  face  uprushing  dreams 
The  sweet  belief  proclaim. 

Her  blue  eyes'  earnest  glance  he  seeks, 
As  hand  grows  warm  in  hand, 

And  thrills  to  see  her  mantling  cheeks - 
He  does  not  understand 

That  something  else  than  love's  conceit 
The  Lady  Blanche  inspires 

To  wear  the  glowing  counterfeit 
Of  love's  ennobling  fires  — 

That  while  he  folds  her  with  his  arm, 
His  polished  steel  returns 
'  A  flattering  image  of  each  charm 
For  which  his  bosom  burns; 


THE  MIRROR  OF  STEEL.  269 

And  that  her  form's  reflected  grace 

Fills  all  the  maiden's  breast, 
Not  one  rift  left  of  tender  space 

For  Love  to  build  his  nest ! 

Yet  not  alone  in  olden  day 

Of  glazen  shields  and  casques, 
Has  vanity  been  known  to  play 

With  love  in  which  it  basks. 

'Tis  sorry  truth  too  oft,  we  know, 

The  mirror  in  the  breast, 
(That  bravest  lovers  frankly  show, 

Their  faith  to  manifest,) 

To  maids  like  Lady  Blanche  reveals 

The  one  they  dearest  prize, 
Stirring  the  rosy  blush  that  steals 

From  finger-tips  to  eyes ! 

Still,  self-admiring  beauty  dares 

Demand  its  burnished  glass ; 
Still,  noblest  knight  most  often  wears 

A  crystal-pure  cuirass ! 


SONG    OF    THE    OLD    YEAR 


WAKE,  awake,  old  Janus! 


Your  double  visage  show, 
And  open  wide  the  gateway 

Through  which  I  needs  must  go : 
Through  which  I  needs  must  wander, 

A  ghost  of  former  time, 
And  bear  to  land  immortal 

A  record  of  this  clime. 


My  royal  life  is  ebbing, 

And  though  I  lusty  seem, 
Tomorrow  none  will  know  me 

But  as  a  faded  dream. 
Behind  your  closing  portal 

I  shall  enshrouded  be, 
Gathered  with  all  the  ages 

In  past  infinity. 
270 


SONG    OF    THE    OLD    YEAR.  27 1 

The  days,  the  months,  the  seasons, 

Have  loyal  vassals  been, 
With  faithful  fingers  weaving 

The  annals  that  I  glean ; 
But,  now,  in  festal  garments 

They  wait  the  coming  king; 
Ready  to  bear  his  mandates, 

And  tribute  still  to  bring. 


A  vision  humbling  truly, 

While  death,  too,  draweth  near; 
For  I  a  world  have  governed 

With  naught  to  interfere  — 
Naught  say  I  ?     Naught  to  check  me  ? 

Old  Year,  thy  pride  withdraw; 
But  delegated  power  had'st  thou  — 

Thou,  too,  art  slave  to  law ! 


A  larger  power  controls  us, 
And  none  so  regal  be 

But  higher  throned,  within  us, 
Supreme  is  Deity. 


272  THE   DIVINE   WILL. 

And  yet  to  meet  good  service 
A  realm  is  still  in  store, 

O'er  which  thy  rod  found  worthy 
Shall  lift  thee  evermore. 

Then  open  wide,  old  Janus, 

The  gate  of  passing  time ; 
I  hear  the  faint  beginning 

Of  fate's  foreboding  chime : 
My  spirit  drops  its  fetters 

The  far  beyond  to  delve  — 
Uprise,  swing  wide,  old  Janus, 

The  stroke  is  at  the  Twelve ! 


THE    DIVINE    WILL. 


EA,  as  thou  wilt,  benignant  Power ! 
I  crave  no  will  of  mine ; 
But  ever  through  life's  little  hour 
To  freely  yield  to  thine.     - 


GENERAL   GORDON.  273 

« 

Go  to,  thou  rash,  impatient  hope  — 

My  will  that  seeks  today  — 
God's  times  have  everlasting  scope, 

And  faultless  Will  obey. 

Just  as  thou  wilt,  benignant  Power! 

I  crave  no  will  but  Thine, 
That  ever  through  life's  little  hour 

Thy  perfect  Will  be  mine. 


GENERAL    GORDON. 


Ah,  God,  for  a  man  with  heart,  head,  hand, 
Like  some  of  the  simple,  great  ones  gone 
Forever  and  ever  by.  —  Tennyson. 

E  is  come,  he  is  come,  we  have  seen  him 
Far  over  the  ocean's  span ; 
We  have  seen  him  a  hero  in  China, 
And,  too,  in  the  wild  Soudan  — 


274  GENERAL    GORDON. 

One  of  our  race  —  and  we  glory- 
That  one  of  our  race  should  be 

So  brave,  and  gentle,  and  loyal 
To  chivalry's  creed  as  he  ! 


In  the  bloom  of  his  early  manhood, 

The  masterful  power  was  seen 
That  he  drew  from  a  clan  of  Scotsmen, 

Faithful  to  England's  queen. 
Even  then,  in  Sebastopol's  trenches  — 

Where  cannon  and  grape  and  shell 
Ravaged  with  red  wings  of  slaughter  — 

Wounded  yet  smiling  he  fell. 


Ail  his  promise  of  youth  that  budded 

In  so  grave,  disjointed  time, 
Flowered  into  generous  fullness 

In  Asia's  ardent  clime  : 
There,  quelled  he  with  "wand  of  magic,' 

The  troublesome  Tai'ping-horde ; 
Thence,  sowed  he  the  banks  of  Nilus 

With  love's  divinest  word. 


GENERAL    GORDON'.  275 

True  soldier,  none  doubted  his  courage  ! 

Fear  fashioned  no  terrors  for  one 
Who  trusted  his  shibboleth,  Duty, 

In  shadow  as  well  as  in  sun  ; 
Who,  ruling  Meroe  and  Ben  Naga, 

Where  sepultured  kings  once  trod, 
Uplifted  the  Cross  for  the  Crescent, 

And  for  Allah  the  Christian's  God. 


Oh,  tender  and  wise  and  lofty, 

The  heart  and  head  of  the  man 
Who  ruled  with  a  quiet  spirit, 

Long  years  in  the  wild  Soudan ; 
Who  gained  the  faith  of  the  Arab, 

Till  El  Mahdi's  force  today, 
In  worshipful  fear  of  the  Gordon, 

Falls  silently  from  his  way. 


Yes,  the  man  is  come,  who  is  simple 
And  great  in  his  earnest  life  — 

Ever  a  friend  of  the  friendless, 
And  alway  a  soother  of  strife  — 


276  GENERAL    GORDON. 

And  he  it  is  who  is  lifted, 

A  lode-star  of  truth  and  right, 

To  comfort  Egypta's  troubles 
With  his  swift  supplies  of  light. 


If  he  fail,  he  is  still  a  hero  — 

If  he  fail,  he  is  still  the  man 
Who,  type  of  the  Heavenly  Ruler, 

Has  walked  through  the  wild  Soudan, 
Touching  to  calm  the  fever 

Of  restless  Ethiop-foes  — 
Cheering  with  hope  and  justice 

The  tortured  Moslem's  woes. 


Yet  how  can  he  fail,  whose  valor 

Is  born  of  a  heart  so  pure 
That  Sir  Galahad's  tenfold  prowess 

Could  never  have  been  more  sure  ? 
Face  to  face  with  the  hosts  of  Satan, 

Face  to  face  with  the  enemy's  breath, 
He  is  victor  of  all  who  is  victor 

Of  himself — in  life  and  death. 


A    JACQUEMINOT. 


ROSE  from  my  lady's  bouquet  — 
Did  she  give  it  to  me  ?     Ah,  no  ; 
I  only  gathered  it  where  it  lay. 
Dropped  from  my  lady's  rare  bouquet : 
Noisettes  and  les  Jacqueminots 
flushing  the  air  below. 

"My  lady,"  mine  did  I  say? 

Not  even  her  name  I  know, 
Who  carried  the  rare  bouquet ; 
Yet  a  rose  fell  out  of  it  in  my  way, 

Red  as  a  rose  can  blow, 

And  met  by  an  equal  glow. 

What  matter  to  any  one,  pray, 

That  I  tenderly  hold  it  —  so  ? 
Velvety,  blushing,  bright  as  the  day 
The  rose  and  the  lady.     Kiss  I  ma}-, 
Through  the  bloom  its  petals  show, 
Her  cheek  in  the  Jacqueminot  ! 


278  FORM    AND    FRAGRANCE. 

Kiss  it  and  dream  alway, 

That  a  drop  from  her  heart's  red  flow 
Sought,  as  it  fell  from  her  sweet  bouquet, 
To  mingle  its  soul  with  mine  for  aye  — 
For  aye,  wherever  I  go  — 
In  the  breath  of  a  Jacqueminot. 


FORM    AND    FRAGRANCE. 


IIOME  homes  there  are  but  meager 
In  limit  of  house  and  ground; 
No  traces  around  of  the  graces 

Of  luxury  to  be  found: 
Yet  joy  in  the  children's  faces 
And  treasures  of  love  abound. 


FORM    AND    FRAGRANCE.  279 

II. 

The  pansy's  pride  is  eager 

Its  purple  and  gold  to  show, 
While  tenderer  violets  render 

Less  glow,  but  a  sweet  o'erflow; 
And  sweetness  is  more  than  splendor, 

A*  souls  that  have  tried  them  know. 

in. 

When  night  comes  on  with  rigor 

Of  death  to  darken  the  day  — 
When  December's  latest  ember 

Of  life  is  shrunken  away  — 
Which  will  the  Lord  remember, 

Spirit  or  substance,  say  ? 


SUMMER    SILENCE. 


HERE  is  stillness,  rapturous  stillness,  in  the 

August  afternoon, 
Though    the    low    swung     leaflets    quiver    to    the 

cricket's    drowsy    tune. 
In    the    cornfields,    gilded    sentries   face    unmoved 

the    cloudless   west, 
While  yellow  moths  dart  through   them    in  disdain 

of  idle  rest; 
Yet  no  rustle  from  their  transit  do  we  hear  within 

the  pause  — 
Not    the    faintest   sound   of   motion   from    the  pin- 
ions'   floating   gauze  : 
Nay;    so   noiseless   is   the    poising  and  the  flitting 

of  each  wing, 
That  the  silence  is  but  richer  for  the  golden  hush 

they  bring. 

The    droning    of    the    crickets  —  did   it   break    the 
breathless  swoon, 

280 


SUMMER    SILENCE.  28  I 

Of    the    half    unconscious    senses,    in    this    August 

afternoon  ? 
Did    it   wake    the    tiniest    fairy    in    her   rosy  sleep, 

pray,  did  it? 
A  thousand  times  we  answer  with  the  Katy-Did  — 

"Nay,  did  it?" 
A  thousand  times  we  answer  to  the   cricket's    lazy 

drone, 
That    the    silence    is   more    silent   for   such    tender 

monotone. 

Oh,    the    echoes   of   the    silence    of    this    strangely 

vocal   hour, 
Outflowing   from    the    honey-bee    that    hums  above 

the  flower, 
Upwelling  from  the  locust-leaf  in  unseen  murmurs 

there, 
And  throbbing  through  a  world  of  life  whose  home 

is  in  the  air  ! 

Yes;    the    golden    day    is    dreamful    through    the 

music  summer  breeds, 
—  Her  myriad   voices    quickened   like    her   myriad 

flowering  seeds  — 


282  HER   GARDEN. 

And    the    silence    is    intenser    with    its    presence 

whispered  so, 
By    the    weird     cicada-chorus     and      the      moths' 

aerial    glow : 
By   the    thrill    of   praise    ascending    from   garden, 

field   and   grove  — 
Tuneful  silence  that  keeps  measure  with  unuttered 

peace  and  love. 


HER    GARDEN. 


ITH  spade  and   rake   she  sought   her  garden 
plot, 

When  bright  brown  thrushes  singing  came 
To  bronze  the  hedge. 

Sang  she,  too,  with  pure  aim 
All  graceless  growth  to  harrow  out,  and  not 
Leave  aught  unseemly. 

Cold  the  day  or  hot, 


A  "  ROSE  OF  THE  ROSEBUD  GARDEN  OF  GIRLS."     283 

She  delved  and  weeded,  thinking  thus  to  shame 
More  careless  gardening;  and  to  win  a  name 
For  toothsome  fruit  which  should  not  be  forgot. 

Paul  plants,  Apollos  waters,  but  increase 
Must  come  from  God. 

Through  unseen  faults  of  fence 
Crept  foxes,  while  tired  nature  caused  surcease 
Of  care. 

Health  came,  but  no  sun  shining.     Hence, 
The   new  seeds   failed   to  bloom.     The  old  bloom 

dead  — 
Alas !  my  barren  hope,  she  sighing  said. 


A    "ROSE    OF    THE   ROSEBUD    GAR 
DEN    OF    GIRLS." 

TO   O.   J. 


EN   blessed  years   of  favoring   sun   and  dew 
Have  wrought  with  tireless,  tributary  care 


To  lift  my  bud  into  a  blossom  rare 
'Mong  rarest  roses. 


284   A  "  ROSE  OF  THE  ROSEBUD  GARDEN  OF  GIRLS." 

Pure  mother-fingers,  too, 
Have    plucked    the    weeds  that   pressed    the   rich 
soil  through, 
Till  petal  after  petal  spreads  to  air 
Transparent  loveliness. 

Methinks,  nowhere 
Sweet  maiden  charms  infold  a  heart  more  true. 
Therefore  to  me  should  the  dear  Master  say : 
"  Son,  fearless  ask,  thy  parent-hope  to  fill 
Whatever  thou  would'st  have  of  sweeter,  higher, 
Or  more  fair  bestowal  "  —  I  would  answer  "  Nay," 
Yet  reverently  thankful  to  the  Will, 
"Thou  can'st  not  add  one  grace  to  my  desire." 


TO    "A    PERFECT    WOMAN    NOBLY 
PLANNED." 


IS  said  that  Rev'rence  upon  silence  waits, 
Fearing  the  misconceptions  that  pursue 

The  frank  avowal  of  the  simple  true; 
That  when  Expression  swings  impassioned  gates 
And  cold  convention's  bulwark  violates, 

Only  the  mask  of  homage  passes  through! 

And  vet  'tis  simplest  truth  that  reaches  you, 
When  your  sweet  praise  my  voice  reiterates. 
For  when  a  soul's  rare  radiance  doth  command 
The  worship  of  the  few  —  who  understand 

A  woman's  trinity  of  perfectness  — 
As  well  the  songs  of  seraphim  can  die 
About  the  Throne,  as  one  stand  mutely  by, 

Dumb  to  the  being  fashioned  so  to  bless! 


*si 


ERRATA. 

Page    76.  —  In    last    words  of   George    Sand,  for 
Laisser  read  Laissez. 

Page  86.  —  In  thirteenth  line,  for  peace  read  place. 


